


The Bookshop

by Ainulinde



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookshop, Confused Bilbo Baggins, Confused Thorin, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Lots of Tea, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romance, Slow Burn, Tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8596324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ainulinde/pseuds/Ainulinde
Summary: Bilbo Baggins is a man of simple things. He likes books, well-brewed tea, and to be left alone, thank you very much. He opened a bookshop with the intention to do just that.Then one day a stranger walks in, doesn't buy a single book, and turns Bilbo's world upside down.





	1. Chapter One

It was that guy again.

Soldier uniform, neatly pressed.  Body always upright and tense. He opens the door and enters as if the shop were his domain, then pauses, as if he suddenly found himself in an unfamiliar territory.

Which it shouldn’t be, really. The man came to his shop for about a week in a row, if Bilbo is not mistaken. He should know the place from top to bottom, with the amount of staring he does.

Never touched any of the books, however. Never picked up a single book nor glanced at a single page. Bilbo wondered, frowning, if the man knew how to read.

He stayed for two hours, always, never deviating, then turned his back and marched outside without a second glance. Bilbo wasn’t even sure the man was aware of his presence.

He asked around a bit and was told the man was not from these parts. Nor was a platoon positioned nearby. Most of the people of his village hadn’t seen a soldier before, here in the Shire.

So what was the man doing, staring at titles and walking around in neat square patterns, yet not touching anything?

Well, a part of him mused. He may have been a regular, but he never shopped, so he shouldn’t be too worried about scaring the stranger away, right? It may satisfy his curiosity, at the very least.

“Hello,” he said.

The man froze. He appeared to be bracing himself before he turned slowly to face the intruder. Bilbo had to remind himself that this was his shop, so he wasn’t an intruder; at all.

“Would you like some tea?”

The man remained silent. For a moment, Bilbo wondered if the man simply did not speak English. That would explain a lot, except, perhaps, why he frequented a book shop. Which sold books that were written in English.

“Tea?” the man asked.

Bilbo allowed himself a moment of relief before he realized that the man was, perhaps, repeating the word because he did not know what it meant. He decided to prepare a cup, just in case. Surely the man knew what tea was, even if he did not understand it was being offered to him.

Bilbo smiled and ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that insisted on replaying the word, ‘tea?’ again and again in the stranger’s smooth, baritone voice.

“Well, it is quarter to four, and I’m feeling peckish.” He heated the tea kettle and prepared two mugs, then placed two tea bags inside. “Besides, I’ve got the feeling it’s not the books you are after.”

Bilbo hummed with the kettle and smiled when he heard the bubbling of the water. He turned to look at the stranger, who loomed from the corner he claimed as his own.

“Why would you think that?” he demanded.

Hmm. He clearly spoke the language. But that did not help to explain his odd behavior.

“Well, you don’t look interested in them,” Bilbo said casually and poured the water into the mugs. “Milk? Sugar? Lemon?” he looked up to find the man staring at him as if he were a member of a new species, yet to be discovered.

Bilbo shrugged and filled the two mugs with boiling water. The rich aroma and the dark color eased his mind tremendously. He guessed he could forgive the stranger his rudeness. Perhaps he was unused to being offered tea at bookshops.

“You will have to come here if you want any, I’m afraid. I don’t like people drinking next to my books.” He picked up his mug and sniffed it. Yes, just the right aroma. “I don’t mind the company,” he added when he noticed the man still stared. Dumbfounded or affronted? He couldn’t tell.

Bilbo opened the book he was reading and continued to read, feeling at peace with the world and his strange visitor, still rooted to his spot. He refused to think of him as handsome. No, the last thing Bilbo needed was clean shaven cheekbones and hooded eyes to chase his thoughts at night.

He actually jumped in surprise when the stranger marched toward his desk and sat across from him, his back ramrod straight and his eyes still hooded and wary. And very, very blue.

Bilbo closed his book and waved his hand in the direction of the stranger’s mug.

The man did not touch the mug. He glared at him with anger so potent that Bilbo dropped his book.

Bilbo mumbled something as he dived under the desk to pick the book up and when he returned to his seat, cheeks slightly pink, the stranger had finished his tea.

Bilbo frowned; he had not yet touched his tea since both mugs were still steaming. Did the man feel uncomfortable…? Comes to think of it, did he not burn his tongue, just now?

“Would you like another?” he asked politely. “Or perhaps a bit of ice…”

“I’ve heard people say you are eccentric,” the man interrupted.

Bilbo stared.

The stranger appeared to have realized what he had said and his ears, of all things, turned bright red.

He looked so uncomfortable suddenly that Bilbo actually pitied him. Perhaps he did not talk because he was terrible at holding a conversation? He suddenly noted the man was decorated with medals. Strange fellow.

“Eccentric, yes, but it’s hard not to be, in these parts. All you need to do is be a little different.” He poured the stranger another cup of tea. Did the man look sheepish? Or was he afraid of the tea? Considering his poor manners, Bilbo began to wonder if the man ever saw a cup of tea in his life. “I am gay, however,” he said pleasantly.

The stranger stared.

Bilbo demonstrated the proper way of drinking tea by taking a small sip, then lowering the cup. He noted the way the stranger’s eyes followed the movement of his hand as he brought the cup back to his lips and took another small sip. Drinking tea properly is of the highest importance in all social events and circumstances. And the man was, after all, decorated. He must have attended quite a few of those.

Bilbo still felt peckish, however.

“Are you-“

“I am not gay!” the man declared.

Bilbo blinked. “I wasn’t about to suggest that,” he said politely. “I wanted to ask if you are hungry.”

He wondered if he should be offended. He could, probably, banish the man from his shop. He was rude, after all. Insulting and odd, and he never purchased a single book, nor appeared to be interested in purchasing any in the future. But then his ears, once again, blazed red and Bilbo found the sight to be comical enough to warrant a forgiveness, of sorts.

“Just a moment, then. And do let your tea cool, this time!”

He got up and left the room, then returned a few minutes later with two steaming plates, straight from the microwave. “If it’s not warm enough, let me know,” he said pleasantly and began to eat.

After a few moments of tense silence, Bilbo decided to give up on the man as a conversation partner and opened his book again. After a minute or two, he heard the man picking up his utensils.

Bilbo smiled quietly to himself and waited a few more moments before he dared to glance at his companion. When he did dare, however, he frowned and lowered the book.

The man held the utensils so tightly his knuckles turned white. He did not touch the food.

“Is something the matter?” he inquired, lowering his book. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“No,” the man said blatantly.

Bilbo’s hand twitched. No one disliked his cooking before. “Well, would you like something else…?” he tried to be polite. The stranger was not worth it, clearly, but he still tried.

“No,” the man repeated. “I… did not try it yet,” he explained. Was he sheepish again? But before Bilbo could say anything, those blue, blue eyes focused on him with new intensity. “Aren’t you going to ask me?” he almost sounded desperate.

“Ask you? About what?” Bilbo asked, startled.

The man frowned, as if uncertain as to why he had to clarify his utterly confusing question. Bilbo had almost regretted ever speaking to the man; he did a far better job as a strange, handsome mystery than a rude, odd, still handsome conversation partner. At least the former option allowed his imagination to roam. Reality, so far, was disappointing. The proximity didn’t help much, either. Before he spoke to the man, he did not know how blue his eyes were.

“About… about me,” the man explained, with his hand against his chest. Then he dropped it and sat as rigidly as before.

“Why?” Bilbo frowned.

The man once again appeared perplexed. “People ask,” he said.

His attempts at explanations were as bad as the rest of his conversation skills, apparently.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Bilbo said kindly. He ignored the man’s scorching glare. “You are in uniform. Most people would ask about the war.” He cut a slice of the chicken. “Decorated, too.”

The man, if anything, looked lost. His hand instinctively jumped to clasp the cross. The bronze cross, attached to a crimson ribbon, looked surprisingly plain.

“Yes… the war,” the man said slowly. “They ask about that, too.”

Bilbo tapped his mouth with his napkin. “You don’t have to wear the uniform everywhere you go. I assume you are not on active duty? People won’t bother you, that way.” He smiled.

The man huffed and looked away.

“Well, eat up! I am not trying to poison you, you know.” He smiled and returned to his book. “And I won’t ask, so don’t worry about it.”

The man glared – Bilbo began to wonder if his features were capable of anything else – and did nothing.

After a while (Bilbo hardly noticed, as he was reading) the man got up and picked up the now empty plates. Bilbo did not notice that either until the man cleared his throat.

He jumped and stared at the man in confusion, uncertain for a moment who he was and how he got there and why oh why he was holding two plates and looking at him questionably.

Then it clicked.

“Oh, leave that! Thank you, I will do the dishes, don’t worry about it!” he took the plates. “I’m Bilbo, by the way,” he added, noticing it was slightly late in the conversation to introduce oneself, but still required.

“I know,” the man said. He glanced at his watch and added, “I have to go.”

“Of course, I won’t keep you.” Bilbo, who had been trying to balance the plates so he could shake the man’s hand, gave up when he noticed none was offered. “If you pass here again, don’t bother knocking! Tea is at four, but you are welcome at any time.”

He will probably come here again tomorrow, and he never did knock (who knocked when entering a shop, anyways?), but Bilbo felt he had to be proper for the both of them.

He still did not know what the strange fellow wanted, but decided he was harmless enough to offer him another chance.

The man nodded, then clicked one heel to the other, his hand moved up… - and then the man realized he was about to salute and immediately turned and all but fled toward the door.

“Wait! You did not say what your name was!”

The man paused, ears still red. “Thorin,” he coughed.

He was gone.

* * *

Bilbo was just getting to the good part of the book, but he was paying it no mind. The man, Thorin, who always appeared at three, sharp, and left at five, sharp, was late.

He was almost an hour late.

Of course, not that Bilbo expected much. For all he knew, he might have scared the living daylights out of the man with tea and homemade food. Or the fact that he was gay.

Bilbo preferred not to think about it. He was not a young boy anymore, and he promised himself he was not going to hide it or be ashamed of who he was. The man’s reaction was insulting enough. But Bilbo was past the stage where such reactions could offend him. His eyes stung.

He got up angrily. It was almost tea time, and he was determined to enjoy it, and one could not enjoy tea time without tea, after all. This time, he had some loose-leaf tea and a fitting kettle prepared, not because he expected company, but-

The door opened – at four o’clock, sharp – and in entered Thorin, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, neatly pressed. Tie and all.

Bilbo huffed. He refused to acknowledge that - nope, he wasn’t even going to think about that.

“You have something for suits, don’t you?” he said amiably, then noticed the flowers clutched in Thorin’s fist. “Oh… I’m… I’m sorry,” he added, flustered. And there he was making fun of the man!

“Sorry?” Thorin asked. He did not move from his spot at the entrance of the shop.

“Yes, well. You didn’t have to come, you know, I wouldn’t have- I mean-” Bilbo froze, uncertain what he was supposed to say. “My condolences,” he offered eventually.

Thorin stared at him blankly. “I am not going to a funeral.”

“Oh.”

Then Bilbo realized Thorin was still staring at him and that the tea was ready, so he turned, face somewhat red, to tend to the tea. “Oh, I see. I am so sorry. I just assumed because of the suit and the bouquet…” he lifted his head and blinked, surprised to find the man had crossed the distance and was now standing in front of him.

He offered him the bouquet with his hand perpendicular to his body, which was perpendicular to the floor. In fact, the man reflected such mathematical perfection it took Bilbo a moment to process the situation.

“Flowers?” he wheezed.

Thorin broke eye contact only so he could scrutinize at the bouquet he was crushing in his fist. “Yes,” he confirmed, after a moment of inspection. “My sister said to bring some,” he added.

Bilbo would have congratulated his developing conversational skills were he not so utterly lost.

“To a book shop?”

“To a book shop owner.”

“To me? What shall I do with them?”

Thorin paused, looking deflated. His hand twitched, then fell to rest against his tailored pants.

“I haven’t thought about that,” he admitted.

Bilbo swallowed. “Why did you bring them, then?”

“I thought you’d like them,” Thorin said. His eyes, which up until now regarded Bilbo unwavering, looked away.

Bilbo blinked. Then cleared his throat. “Well, I do have a vase in here somewhere. Give me a moment.” And he fled, feeling his cheeks – oh, they were burning – and took a moment to breathe.

Flowers and a suit. Flowers. Oh boy.

He steadied his breath and returned to the room, carrying an old vase with him, half filled with water, and placed it on his desk. He then reached out to accept the flowers.

Thorin did not move.

Bilbo, still a bit pinkish but no less determined, lifted Thorin’s hand gently, held it in his hands, and slowly pried the flowers from Thorin’s iron fist.

He winced when he noted the broken stems but nevertheless, after a short moment of cutting the rubber band and those sad, crushed stems, he arranged the banquet in the vase. When he was satisfied, he reached again and grabbed Thorin’s hand, turning it upward so he could look at his palm.

“Well, you are lucky these weren’t roses,” he said pleasantly. “Would you like some tea?”

He looked up.

He shouldn’t have.

Thorin was looking at him, into him, and his features were graced with a soft, small smile.

“I would,” he replied.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it's Christmas, but please enjoy my belated Halloween Special! (I'm a bit behind on the holidays...)

Bilbo disliked Halloween. With passion.

It wasn’t the costumes or the candy or the fact that he had to make said candy because bought candy looked cheap, or his neighbors’ superstitions or even complaints that a wealthy neighbor should put more effort into celebration the traditions, God damn those Sackville-Bagginses-

No; it was the endless knocking that started around six (young, snotty brats and their overly concerned parents) and continued till ten, sometimes even eleven (annoying teenagers that wanted to brag they got some ‘queer’ candy). Then, of course, there was always the risk of waking up in a house wrapped in toilet paper – or, and that was the true horror – the stench of rotten eggs.

His house may have been the target of the latter more often than he would have liked to admit.

Those endless knockings, however, would drive him mad one day. He knew that for certainty.

So he placed a bucket outside his door and a note, asking politely that each kid will take one cupcake and leave the rest to the other kids. Not that he was expecting much, but he hoped the blue, lamp-like eyes he plastered to the nearby window would make the children think he’s watching.

Also, he prepared three trays of sweets as an extra precaution.

And thus, with a nice book and a comforting fire and a steaming mug (spiced just a bit) prepared, he sank into his armchair and prayed that the night will pass without any incident.

It was also likely to snow, a fact which may deter even the most mischievous of teens. Probably.

_“Bless us and splash us, my precioussss! I guess it’s a choice feast; at least a tasty morsel it’d make us, gollum!” And when he said gollum he made a horrible swallowing noise in his throat-“_

A knock on the door.

Bilbo jumped.

At the same time with the protagonist, oddly enough. He scoffed. Stupid children couldn’t read the note-

Another knock- actually, it sounded like several hands were knocking. The pounding was softer than he had expected. Was it because of the snow? It did snow, after all. Bilbo’s eyes followed the swirl of the snow flurry, enchanted, when his door was pounded on, again.

Bilbo rose, considered muttering something unsavory under his breath, decided against it, and strode toward his door. With his heart racing and a silent prayer that no murderer awaited on the other side (it was Halloween, after all) he opened the door.

“’ello.”

“I’m Kili-“

“I’m Fili-“

“It’s really cold-“

“We lost our uncle-“

“He’s tall-“

“Can we come in?”

“Is that your costume?”

“Kili, I think that’s a bathrobe-“

“Boys!” Bilbo ordered. The two children fell silent and looked at him expectedly. Bilbo froze, uncertain how to continue the conversation from there. “Ehm,” he managed, scowling.

The pirate with the blond hair and the beads in his fake beard waved his plastic sword. “I’m Fili,” he said again. “We ate all of your cupcakes.”

“I’m Bilb- that is very impolite of you, young man! What about the other children?” he reprimanded.

“I think they went home,” said the pirate. “Didn’t see any.”

“We lost Uncle,” said the dark-haired robin hood, shivering in his cloak.

“He lost us.”

“He gets lost a lot-“

“Do you have a telephone?” the pirate, again, tried to take control of the situation.

Bilbo blinked. What would an adult do in this situation? Is he the adult now? “Well, yes, but I can’t imagine…” the boys shivered. “Do come in,” he surrendered, “try not-“

The boys rushed in before he could utter another word, leaving him to stare blankly at the snow that was skillfully covering the entire village.

“Look, Kili! More cupcakes!”

“Mountains of cupcakes!”

“Lots of- Can we eat them, Mister Bilb?” Both directed their twinkling wide eyes at him as if he were Santa Claus himself.

“It’s- it’s Bilbo,” he sighed. “Yes, all right- But do not- no- oh well.” The boys grabbed two each and munched with such avid delight he couldn’t really object. Though he should have. They will be sick later, without a doubt. And their uncle…

Bilbo muttered something that may have sounded like ‘don’t go anywhere’ and went to his office, took a piece of paper and wrote, ‘KILI AND FILI’, as large as he could, hoping their missing uncle would be able to see the sign from afar, despite the snow.

Come to think of it, he had never seen nor heard of them before, did he? _Strange_ , he thought as he taped the sign to his front door.

He returned to the kitchen and found that both the pirate and the archer where he left them – trailing mud all over his table and apparently in the middle of a battle over the last cupcake.

The last cupcake. How-

He took a deep breath. “Boys!”

The two paused and looked at him innocently, as if unable to comprehend the reason for his irritation.

“Get off the table, now! This is for eating, not for fighting… oh the mud… and hand me your weapons, please,” he ordered.

Fili and Kili exchanged a glance, then obeyed.

“Careful with these, I just had them sharpened,” declared the blond one.

“Do you have more cupcakes?” said the second as he handed his bow with extreme care.

“You had quite enough, I think.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Take off your boots too and sit next to the fire. Try not to touch anything- no, not that- here,” he stirred both of them – and their sticky fingers – away from the furniture and toward the fireplace. Then he draped each in a blanket and tried to think.

“All right, where are you from?”

“Ered Luin!” declared Fili.

Bilbo stared, blank faced. “Ere- the- but that’s a whole other village! Why-“

“We wanted to try something new!”

“Uncle said the food here is good-“

“He has a friend here-“

“But we lost Uncle-“

“He lost _us_ -“

“Then it snowed-“

“It snowed _before_ Uncle lost us-“

“And then we saw your cupcakes-“

“So we ate them-“

“They’re really good!”

“Do you have a telephone?” asked Fili. Apparently, he was the serious one. “Mum said to call her if there’s trouble.”

“But then Uncle would get in trouble…”

“But Mum said-“

A knock on the door.

 _Oh, thank goodness_ , Bilbo sighed. He could not cope with the speed with which the boys spoke. “Wait here and do not touch anything,” he said, rising. He could only hope that this was their uncle and not yet another stray.

He ran out of cupcakes.

He opened the door. And blinked.

Thorin blinked back.

He wore a cape. He had snow in his hair and melted snow trailing down his cheeks. His eyes were still blue.

“Oh, hello,” Bilbo wheezed. Articulate. Yes. Way to go.

“Hewo,” Thorin tried.

Bilbo frowned.

Thorin, clearly embarrassed, removed a set of fake, fanged teeth from his mouth and tried again. “Hello,” his voice resonated.

“You’re a vampire?” Bilbo scowled, then smiled uncertainly. Somehow, he did not expect that.

“Yes,” Thorin affirmed. “It’s Halloween.”

“I- I… yes,” Bilbo agreed, then frowned. Why was he at the door, again? Wasn’t there…?

Thorin cleared his throat. “I saw the sign,” he said.

“Oh? Sign?” Bilbo turned to glance at the other side of the door, then- “Oh! Right! Are you Fili’s and Kili’s uncle? They say they lost you – or you them – or, I mean…” his cheeks turned pink. “Do come in,” he managed.

Thorin entered. He removed his cape and strode in with a perfect 18th-century replica of yet another tailored suit and called, “Boys?”

Within seconds both children – Bilbo would have assumed them to be around eight and six, respectively- rushed forward and jumped on Thorin, trying to bring him to the ground.

“Kili! We must kill the vampire!”

“Protect Bilbo!

“My sword! Kili, get my sword!”

“Can’t! Bilbo, get my bow!”

“Argg we have you cornered, you evil beast!”

“Yeah! Holy water! Pshhh!”

Thorin fell gracefully to the floor. “Oh no,” he said solemnly. “Not holy water.” He closed his eyes dramatically.

“Yes! Fi, we have him!”

Then both boys turned to face him.

“We saved you, Bilbo!”

“Can we have more cupcakes?”

“Killing vampires is hard work-“

“We have holy water-“

Bilbo chortled. To think that the grave, brave soldier would- then Thorin opened one eye to look at him and Bilbo’s giggle turned into a cough.

“Right, then, off you go- next to the fire, so you don’t catch a cold- I will bring you cookies, yes, not to worry-“

“And milk?” Kili looked at him, wide-eyed and too adorable for this world.

“Yes, and milk.” He watched them run to the living room while hollering their victory and tried to regain his composure as he turned to face the fallen vampire, who already rose and stared at him unblinking.

His lips were curved upward in a slight smile and Bilbo knew his cheeks could not handle it for much longer. “Tea?” he squeaked, ever the perfect, gentlemanly resort.

“Do you have something stronger?”

Not a moment of hesitation. Oh boy. “Why, yes, of course… wine? I can heat it up and…”

Thorin stepped closer.

“A glass of wine then, just a moment.”

Bilbo fled.

Ah, the kitchen. Nothing ever happens in the kitchen. He opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass, then turned around and blinked at Thorin’s chest. It took him a moment to glance up and find Thorin’s eyes. He offered the glass wordlessly.

“Drink with me?” the man asked.

Bilbo poured himself a glass, then stared at it as if the red liquid was supposed to explain its presence to him. He looked up.

Thorin was glaring at the window. How the man managed to look majestic in in a frilly neck tie was beyond him. “It snows,” he observed.

Bilbo turned, then turned back, then turned again, having finally managed to find a window. “Yes. You can stay, of course,” he offered.

Thorin’s eyes focused on him with such intensity he felt his cheeks turning as red as the wine.

“I mean- until the snow, of course, and the boys, I… ehm.”

Thorin nodded. “I am glad you found them.”

“Oh, they found me. I did not do much,” he managed, then sipped from his glass. Alcohol, yes. He never did anything stupid under the influence; not once.

Thorin turned around and walked to the living room. Bilbo trailed behind, wondering what in the world is happening. Then Thorin paused. He smiled.

Bilbo stared. And he thought the earlier curve was a smile. Oh, but that was a _smile_ -

He choked his thoughts with an unnecessarily large gulp from his glass, then choked for real and tried to hide it with a cough. As a result, Thorin ceased smiling and glanced at him in confusion. Oh, for crying out loud!

Not that he was smiling because of him, of course; no, the boys merely fell asleep and suddenly transformed from energetic little agents of chaos into adorable little angels. Huh.

“I have a guest bedroom, if…”

“Let them stay by the fire,” Thorin said and turned to glance at him.

His proximity to the flames caused the snow caught in his hair to melt, and a drop of water raced down the curve of his forehead, then followed the outline of his cheekbone, then finally slid down his jaw.

Bilbo’s fingers rose to catch it.

Oh. Oh god. He just touched – he is still touching – he cupped Thorin’s face – he is _still_ cupping Thorin’s face-

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, eyes wide, which must have sounded ridiculous, because his fingers still caressed Thorin’s cheekbone and his jaw and-

“Don’t,” he said simply.

Then Thorin lowered his head – so slowly – and his hand cupped Bilbo’s cheek – so gently – and Bilbo’s eyes fluttered close –

“Uncle? What are you doing? You can’t eat Bilbo,” a sluggish voice reminded them. “We used holy water, remember?”

Thorin’s ears burned red and Bilbo cheeks flushed crimson-

Oh, for the love of god.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what'd you think? Comments would be much appreciated =)


	3. Chapter 3

It was still snowing.

Bilbo hasn’t decided yet if he was a fan of November or not. On the one hand, the snow meant he had the perfect excuse to stay home all day long, drink tea and read his books and no one could object. Well, Lobelia did like to comment about the dismal state of the path to his house, but since she wouldn’t dampen her fancy boots trying to get to his door, Bilbo saw no reason to get up from his very comfortable armchair and do something about it.

In fact, he felt incredibly pleased, as if he and the snow had formed a secret alliance against snobbish relatives.

On the other hand, snow meant no customers. He did not have many to begin with, granted (the folly of opening a bookshop in a village that didn’t read anything unless it was a recipe or a family tree), but snow meant that even the few he sometimes had were entirely gone.

And this year he had another reason to be displeased with the white substance – it blocked the path from the Shire to Ered Luin completely, or so he heard Hamfast say the other day. And why did he Hamfast tell him that…?

“Coal!” he yelled to no one in particular, then blinked accusingly at the cheerful fire burning brightly in the fireplace.

He entirely forgot he had to restock his coal supply. 

Bilbo all but jumped up from his armchair and rushed to the door, then rushed back to extinguish the fire by turning off the air supply, then rushed toward the door, again-

Well, Lobelia wasn’t entirely wrong when she said he should reacquaintance himself with a shovel.

That was quite a bit of snow.

Bilbo puffed his cheeks and teetered – back and forth, then decided to just use his body to carve a path through the wet mess. He didn’t have time to bring a shovel – Hamfast said some coal merchants up from the mountains will come today –

All right, perhaps trying to physically fight the snow wasn’t such a great idea.

He was soaked, out of breath, and stuck.

Well, he wasn’t exactly stuck; just a bit morbid.

Bilbo huffed and puffed until he – yes! Reached a street where civilized people lived. Meaning where the roads were already cleared and covered with rock salt. He looked back at his house and agreed with himself that it looked rather ridiculous.

His wet clothes did not improve his state.

Now he had to hurry to the market, before the last of the coal bags was sold or the merchants left or he caught a cold. Although the latter seems likely to happen the moment he decided to use his body instead of a proper snow removal tool.

Bilbo marched toward the market, freezing and praying to all the gods he had ever heard of not to run into his not so lovely cousin. Despite his not so pleasant musings, Bilbo could not help but admire the loveliness of the Shire covered in snow, looking almost like gingerbread and frosting, straight out of a fairytale…

“’ello, there! Oh, lookey here, cousin, I think someone had a tumble!”

Bilbo froze and turned, glaring (or frowning, he wasn’t sure) at two, rather shady looking characters who were pointing his way; one of them grunted something that sounded not unlike a gruesome death threat, if Bilbo was not mistaken.

“Probably right,” answered the other shady fellow. He wore a misshapen, wool hat, a shapeless demin jacket, and a kindly smile. “Did you?” he asked.

It took Bilbo a moment to realize the man addressed him with a question which was based on the other man’s unintelligible death promising grunt.

“Did I… what?” he braved a question.

The darker man grunted again and his friend smiled. “Fall,” he translated (?) the ominous sound. “Your clothes are wet.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, they are. I mean, the clothes are – I did not fall. Actually, I…” The Bilbo decided telling complete strangers he was too lazy to clean his path was not the brightest idea. He did have some sort of a reputation, after all. “I came to buy coal,” he declared instead.

Actually, he was supposed to get to the market. He shouldn’t stay and chit chat with oddly dressed strangers who spoke a language which was not English which, in his opinion, made them very suspicious indeed.

“Oh, yer in luck!” exclaimed the one who did speak English, “We’re the coal miners! ’m Bofur, this here is my cousin, Bifur. He speaks German.”

“Oh,” Bilbo commented elegantly.

The German fellow nudged his cousin, who then added, “Actually, yer out of luck today, mister! We just came back from the market, see. All sold. Like hot buns. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Bilbo managed, trying to sound only slightly disappointed.

Bifur growled something that sounded oddly like a battle cry; his cousin frowned. “True, true, can’t leave a fellow with no fuel for ‘is ‘earth…” he smiled at Bilbo.

Bilbo took a cautionary step back.

“Tell ya what! Give us yer name, and we’ll make a special delivery. Not exactly company policy, but the boss won’t like the idea we let ya freeze like that!” He walked up to Bilbo and grabbed his hand for a shake.

Bilbo did _not_ squeak.

“M Bofur,” he restated.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo said, then frowned. Why did he say that? He had no proof that they were what they said they were. After all, these guys were complete, oddly dressed strangers!

He withdrew his hand.

Bofur, apparently, was not offended. He waved his hand and returned to his cousin, then both of them took the path to Bywater and disappeared.

Bilbo shuffled, then teetered, then tottered, then tromped home.

* * *

 

The itch at the back of his throat told him his efforts weren’t for naught; he actually was developing a cold.

­­­­­­Fire dancing brightly at his feet, a warm mug of tea in his hands, and a box of soft tissues nearby were not enough to improve Bilbo’s mood.

Neither was the now beautifully swiped and salted path or the small bag of coals kindly donated by Hamfast. No. Bilbo resolved that this had to be the worst winter he had ever had – ever – and the coldest one too, with too much snow and not enough… knocks on his door.

Knocks on his door? If anything, he had too many people knocking on his –

Oh, wait; someone was knocking on it right now.

 _More like denting the wood,_ thought Bilbo sourly as he rose from his armchair. _No need to break the door down._

“Coming!” he grumbled, tightened his robe and opened the door.

Thorin stood on the other side.

Thorin stood. On the other side. Of his door.

Thorin stood, sweaty and heaving, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes gleaming, still too bloody blue…

Thorin licked his lips. “Car broke down.”

Bilbo may have whimpered.

Thorin frowned.

Bilbo blinked and mentally slapped himself. “Oh, yes, car?” He replied.

“My car.”

“Right.”

Thorin raked his hand through his hair, confused. Then he squared his shoulders and glared at Bilbo meaningfully. Bilbo was still, unfortunately, quite lost, so he was not sure what the meaning was, exactly.

“Where do you want them?”

“Pardon?” It wasn’t just blue. Blue was boring, compared with… sapphire? No, too dark. Maybe cerulean? Steel Blue? _Oh, now you’ve lost it proper, Bilbo Baggins, trying to think of a poetic eye color name-_

“Coal.” Thorin pointed at the four, incredibly heavy looking bags of coal. Four. Four. Did he walk here with four bags of coal?

“Four?” He babbled.

Thorin nodded, looking, if anything, a bit sheepish. “We ran out. I’ll bring you more.” He waited, then coughed. “So, where do you want them?”

“Bedroom,” Bilbo blubbered, then turned bright red, “Oh! I mean, kitchen – no, living room. Yes. Living room. Would you like some tea?”

Thorin did not move. “Are you…”

“Sick! Yes! Very – I mean, not _very_ sick… I have a cold – tea?”

He really had to stop squeaking when he was nervous.

Thorin bent to lift the bags – the four bags – and Bilbo allowed himself a glimpse of muscles rippling and dancing (all right, Thorin was wearing a coat, so he did not get to see anything, but a man can dream, right?) then fled to the kitchen. Why did that feel familiar?

He boiled water, steadied his breath, then tiptoed to the living room. Thorin rose and glared at the pile of tissue balls as if it personally offended him.

“I’ve never actually asked you how do you like your tea?”

Thorin’s frown eased slightly as he crossed the distance to Bilbo. Bilbo stifled the urge to take a step back.

“I don’t, actually,” the man admitted, eyes darting. “I’m more of a coffee person.”

Right. Offer him coffee, then.

“Wine?” he stammered.

Thorin’s lips curved in that adorable, almost-but-not-really smile. “I’d love some.”

He would love – he said ‘love’ – that was his word – he said – STOP IT.

Bilbo trailed to the kitchen and refused to think about the man following him and sending heat waves all the way through his robe to touch his skin –

Bilbo managed, surprisingly, to not drop the bottle. In fact, he also managed to pour two lovely glasses of wine and offer one without dropping or spilling or, unfortunately, touching Thorin’s fingers.

Then something just failed to click.

“What are you doing here?”

Thorin choked on his wine.

Bilbo’s cheeks burned. “Oh, no, I did not mean it like that! Of course, you are welcomed at any time, I mean, ehm.” were his cheeks as red as the wine or, worse, his nose? Bilbo did not want to know. “I meant, with the coal, how…?”

Thorin managed to stop choking. He took another sip and frowned. “Bofur said he had promised you a delivery,” he explained.

“Oh! Oh, right! Right. Erm, I thought you were a soldier?” Bilbo hedged. Was this getting personal? Should he be getting personal? The man did declare he wasn’t gay, but about two weeks ago he nearly kissed him, and a week before that he brought him flowers, and…

“I am,” Thorin hurried to assure him and stood as straight as a ruler to prove his point. “My father owns a mining company.”

“Family business?”

Thorin looked a bit discomfited. “In a way.”

Bilbo wondered if he should offer his guest food. Would he consider it lunch, and would that be enough to count as a date? Were the ones before dates? What about tea? Does tea count? But if he did not like tea, then would the flowers count? Should he ask? Is he brave enough?

Apparently, his expression must have been quite confused, for Thorin added, “We used to specialize in gold and gems. Not coal.”

It took Bilbo a moment to pick up the threads of the conversation. “I-is that so? Why did you change?”

“Didn’t have a choice.”

“Aha. I… see.”

Thorin’s eyes darted away and then returned, clear of the fog of bad memories. “I have to go soon,” he declared.

“Won’t you stay for lunch?” Bilbo asked. Did he sound desperate? It may have sounded desperate.

Thorin’s features softened slightly in embarrassment. “’Soon, as in a week.”

“Oh.” Bilbo wondered if he missed something.

“Back to the field,” Thorin clarified.

“Oh,” Bilbo breathed, “oh, that’s… for how long?”

Thorin scowled, then sighed. “You are not supposed to ask a soldier that.”

“Oh!” he desperately needs to expand his vocabulary, “I am so sorry! Is that a bad luck thing, like wishing actors good luck or seeing black cats?”

Thorin chuckled. He chuckled. Maybe Bilbo is doing just fine. No, wait. Was that a sad chuckle?

“Not really. It’s just a question that I can’t answer. A promise I can’t make.”

His eyes were tender. So tender. He really shouldn’t be allowed to make that sort of expression.

Bilbo bolted.

He ran up the stairs, ignoring the muffled ‘Bilbo?” that trailed after him from the kitchen, ran to his bedroom, opened the drawer, then ran back downstairs and turned to face the baffled, somewhat alarmed man he left in the kitchen.

He took Thorin’s hand and placed a small, simple necklace in his open palm. Silver, plain, with an elegant, incredibly detailed oak leaf charm, smaller than his pinky.

Thorin looked up.

“A promise,” Bilbo emphasized. “My grandpa was a soldier, too. He said this necklace saved his life. It’s not a gift. I… I am letting you borrow it. For luck. And once you come back, you need to visit and return it to me.”

Thorin’s fingers slowly closed around the necklace and Bilbo’s hand, holding it carefully – almost reverently – but holding it all the same.

“A promise,” he repeated.

His hold of Bilbo’s hand tightened while his other hand rose, and very slowly, very carefully, dared to stroke a stray curl, then his cheek – almost never touching, then the man, as freakishly tall as he was, bent his head slowly, slowly…

Bilbo sneezed.

Thorin froze.

Bilbo blew his nose. “So… lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will soon catch up with the holidays =) I know I said there'd be five chapters, but I kind of write it as I go (which is very unlike the way I usually write fanfiction) so I can't say for sure how long this fic will be.  
> I just really enjoy writing it =)  
> Happy new year, everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo knew he was supposed to do… something. That something, however, fled his mind the moment his eye took in the mesmerizing sight of the snow transforming the Shire into gingerbread houses covered with sugar frosting. Perhaps it also transformed its people into agreeable, edible cookies in the process? Is it cold, wherever it is Thorin fights? Does he get a Christmas break? Maybe he could send him a Christmas pie. Maybe –

He was allowed about five minutes of wistful staring before a small hand tugging at his sleeve reminded him of his duties.

Well, almost reminded him. Bilbo peered into Frodo’s equally confused eyed for about five seconds before the boy pointed to the cider roast turkey that would soon be too crisp for anyone’s liking were it to remain in the oven a minute longer.

Bilbo, quick thinking and light-footed as he was, almost did just that.

He opened the oven and took a deep sniff of the turkey, then was, again, interrupted by an insistent tug.

Frodo offered him two oven mitts with a concentrated frown. “Mommy said you should use those.”

“Right.” Bilbo took and donned the offered mitts. “Your mother is right, as usual,” he muttered as he secured the dish in his hands and walked to the dining room.

Frodo followed. “You are very distracted today.”

“Hmm? Probably all the cooking – “

“Well, will you look at that! I can smell it all right! That’s Belladonna’s recipe, isn’t it? Here, love, let me help you,” Primula delighted, then immediately worked to make room on the table.

“Ever so efficient.” Nodded Drogo, though it wasn’t very clear whom he was complimenting. “That smells great!”

“Bilbo forgot his mitts,” Frodo giggled. “And the turkey!”

Bilbo scoffed, then smiled. “You saved both my hands and dinner, I dare say.” He leaned closer and whispered. “I’m sure Santa would be very impressed.”

Frodo’s eyes sparkled with undeniable joy.

Primula shook her head and took out the carving knife, offering it to Bilbo. “Don’t stuff his head with nonsense! Doing good deeds is important at ALL times, even if there are no gifts involved!”

The unveiled threat to his promised gifts distressed the young child, who stared beseechingly at his father.

Drogo rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Santa is older than Mom, so he can do what he likes, yes?” He patted the boy’s mess of black curls. “He also has a special gift for Mom and me, don’t you think?”

“And Bilbo?” Frodo still looked hesitant, even when his plate was filled with his favorite Christmas food.

“Heh, who knows.” Drogo snickered. “Your path was in a rather miserable state, I hear.”

“I did my share of good deeds,” Bilbo objected. He sat down and began to cut his turkey. “I watered my plants. cleaned my shop regularly, and so on.”

“Did you clean behind your ears?” Frodo inquired.

“Yes, that too. And – “

A knock on the door.

“Not another choir,” Primula sighed. “Bilbo, who did you annoy this year?”

“Does it matter?” Bilbo sighed. “They just want to sing the queerness out of me, I suppose,” he waved Drogo when the man rose in protest. “Wait here, I’ll tell them off.”

Bilbo cast one last, longing look to his steaming turkey, hoping it will still be steaming after he’s managed to chase away whoever stood behind his door. And the cranberry sauce, he should pour that before taking the first bite, then, he would sip Prim’s wine, to really bring out all the flavor…

Bilbo opened the door, a cutting remark already preparing and dancing on his lips, when his eyes encountered a chest. Covered in a coat. A military coat. His eyes shot up and his lips curved in a bright smile. “Thorin!”

The man almost, but not quite, smiled back, yet his eyes were definitely warm. And slightly tired.

Bilbo didn’t let that bother him. “Oh! Do come in! You arrived just in time for the main course! Come, come, before it gets cold! And before I get cold, mind,” he added when Thorin frowned but didn’t move an inch.

“I… you have company?” he asked uncertainly, heels still locked in their place.

“Just a cousin and his wife. And their son. They are lovely people, I can assure you. Come! Did you just return from… oh, never mind. Merry Christmas!”

“Err, yes. You, too.” Thorin’s shoulders slumped, then were squared again as the man rose to the challenge and entered Bilbo’s home.

Bilbo was a tad too excited to note the wary look on Thorin’s face. The man took in every inch of the surrounding, and his eyes widened in avid interest when he noted the wreaths, the decorations, and the giant Christmas tree, laden in lights and small figurines.

“Thorin?” Bilbo called. “Come and meet everyone.”

Thorin’s face sobered, his posture straightened, and if his clothes did not shout military, his walk spelled it.

Bilbo was still too excited to notice that. “Prim, Drogo, Frodo,” he pointed each by name, “meet Thorin.”

The family was all too cooperative, as Drogo and Prim rose to shake Thorin’s hand, smiling politely. Thorin then offered his hand to Frodo – the boy blushed, wiped his hands in a hurry, and clasped Thorin’s large hand with both of his. The man’s face softened slightly, and Bilbo could almost hear Prim exhaling in Relief.

“I’ll bring a chair,” Drogo volunteered as Bilbo, stuttering, hurried to bring a plate and matching silverware, leaving poor Thorin to stare at something, no doubt. They reorganized the table and shuffled some plates. The table wasn’t big enough for five, but Bilbo would wish Lobelia merry Christmas before admitting that. He made a show of enjoying the comfort of sitting in the corner, then rose with a gasp and cut Thorin a large slice of the turkey. Too large, but he managed to transport it safely all the same.

Thorin looked at the food, alarmed.

Bilbo ignored rather successfully the burning questions Prim kept glaring at him.

“Did you return today?” he asked.

Thorin still looked rather lost. “Yes. This morning.” He cleared his throat. “I forgot it was Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Bilbo waved his apology aside, then noticed Primula cocking her brow at him. “Oh. Won’t your family miss you? I mean, did I…?”

Thorin quickly swallowed the turkey in his mouth. “It’s fine.” When he noticed the eyes that focused on him expectedly, he added, “The… turkey is really good,” somewhat uncertainly.

“Thank you!” Bilbo beamed.

Thorin’s ears turned slightly red. He cleared his throat again. Drogo, mistaking his discomfort for an actual cough, poured him a glass of wine.

“Are you in the army?” asked Frodo. He looked at Bilbo, then glanced again at Thorin.

Thorin took a sip from his glass. “Yes,” he confirmed.

“Do you like it?”

Thorin frowned, but Frodo was alarmed just for a moment.

Prim, however, was all but drilling holes in Thorin’s head.

Bilbo kicked her underneath the table.

Prim kicked back.

“It is my duty,” Thorin said. His hands tightened their hold of the silver.

“Did you win a competition?” Frodo persisted, pointing to the medal that decorated Thorin’s chest. “You have a medal.”

“Not exactly,” Thorin hedged. “It’s to… honor something I did.”

“What did you do?”

Thorin’s knuckles turned white.

“All right!” Bilbo declared. “Frodo, why won’t you tell Thorin about your school project? They have a nativity play,” he explained to Thorin, but he was uncertain whether the man registered his words. He looked at Thorin, concerned, but the man did not turn to glance at him or wave in reassurance. He wanted to place his hand on Thorin’s to reassure him all is well, but he did not know how would that gesture be received. Under the table? But that was too intimate, and how would Thorin react?

Frodo complied at some point, encouraged by his parents, but Bilbo paid little attention to that. Instead, he bumped his knee with Thorin’s.

The man immediately fixed his posture, as if on command, then, finally, turned to answer Bilbo’s worried gaze. His lips parted slightly as he took a deep breath, then nodded, smiled shortly, and resumed eating.

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped as his ribcage emptied in relief. Oh, boy.

 

Then it was time for desserts and gifts, and the rewarding smile Bilbo earned as he pressed a warm cup of coffee into Thorin’s hands was the best gift he received, surely. No, that was Thorin’s chuckle later that night, induced by Frodo’s joy over the handcrafted notebook Bilbo had bought him. The boy folded the wrapping paper neatly, then ran to his uncle for a hug. “Thanks, Uncle! Can I write my stories in there?”

“Certainly,” Bilbo assured him. “That’s what a notebook is for.”

Frodo picked up his new pen, notebook, and book, and ran to sit by the fire. He wiped his hands clean from the gingerbread cookies and began to read. Next to him, Prim jumped on Drogo in an enthusiastic hug. “Oh, Drogo!”

Underneath her, her husband smiled smugly, then turned to Bilbo. “We’re going on a cruise ship!”

Prim giggled, then cried, “Bilbo, I know it’s a lot to ask on Christmas Eve, but could you babysit Frodo, oh… four months from now?”

“It’d be my pleasure. Don’t eat too much, now! You know what they say about ships and overeating.”

“No superstition on Christmas!”

Bilbo chuckled. He could feel Thorin’s eyes on him, and after a glass and a half of wine, he felt brave enough to return the gaze. Thorin smiled gently. “I’ve got something for you,” he said slowly, almost uncertainly, and Bilbo felt he had to encourage that with a smile.

He followed the man away from the commotion and into the kitchen – Bilbo’s favorite place, just about now – and his eyes followed Thorin’s hands as he fished something from his pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief. “It’s… it’s not a gift, I… I forgot about, didn’t really… here.” He removed the handkerchief and revealed a small pendant of an elegant, incredibly detailed oak leaf charm. “It, err, I think it really did bring me luck. Thanks.”

Bilbo looked up. The genuine look on Thorin’s face made his smile bloom brighter. He took Thorin’s hand in his and closed his fingers around the pendant. “Keep it. You need it more than I do.”

Thorin’s eyes grew warm and tender as he intertwined his fingers with Bilbo.

Bilbo’s cheeks burned crimson. “Besides, I, err, I gave it to you, I mean, I am giving it to you _now._ I let you borrow it _then_ so you, ehm, I’ll have an excuse, to – to know when you return. Safely and all. That’s… yes.”

“I don’t need an excuse,” Thorin whispered. He cupped Bilbo’s cheek, fingers tracing the smooth skin. “I need permission.”

“Permission…?” Bilbo’s brain was on the slow side tonight. “All right. Yes.”

Thorin’s smile softened and grew oh so beautiful, but still, nothing happened. When nothing continued to happen, Bilbo stood on his tiptoes as his hand rose to stroke Thorin’s cheek – damn the man was tall – then pulled him down for a kiss.

At first, the thin lips remained rigid and unmoving, and the wild beating of Bilbo’s heart no longer sang with joy but rang with alarm. Then the lips parted, oh so tenderly, and Thorin’s breath danced on Bilbo’s lips while his hand tangled in Bilbo’s curls, pulling him closer as his lips now returned the kiss. It felt so soft and warm and perfect, and that couldn’t all be the wine, now can it? Bilbo’s hand slid down Thorin’s jaw and neck till it rested against his chest, then rose back up to cup his neck and pull himself _closer,_ only closer. His other traveled up the firearm, explored the rigid arm and the tense shoulder that relaxed underneath his fingers, then moved to cradle the jaw and caress the curve of the ear, the short, silken hair, and to pull his body flush against Thorin’s.

They part momentarily, to breathe the other’s air and glance at the other’s eyes, emotions shifting from amazed to uncertain to hopeful. Then Thorin kissed him, pressed his lips against his in an intoxicating friction that he couldn’t quite get enough of, a taste that he could quite easily grow addicted to, a shared warmth that bubbled and tightened within him as yearning and confusion of months melt down into this, one, perfect moment of truth… a kiss. A lovely kiss.

He could get used to this.

“Well, that certainly answers one of my questions.”

Thorin and Bilbo broke up, gasping.

Prim cocked a brow at them, then smiled. “Guess that means the guest room is still available?”


	5. chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - but here's my Hanukkah Special! (I still pretend it's 2016)

It’s been a day. It’s been two. It’s been five.

It has been a whole bloody week since Bilbo got a good night’s sleep.

And saw Thorin, for that matter. He burned a pie and his gingerbread cookies and a pile of napkins. He ran to the door about five times now to find no one on the other side (cats did not count). The books jumbled their words, his tea refused to stay warm, his Christmas tree looked dull and…  not a single visit.

Not that it mattered. Nope. Thorin fading from the face of the earth had nothing to do with him, no sir! Not today, not yesterday, and not a week ago. At all. Go away, you silly thoughts about blue, blue, eyes…

_Thorin’s lips, soft with hesitance, were sweeter than wine. The warmth of his fingers seeped through Bilbo’s flesh, straight to his core, where desire and affection coiled and blossomed. Then the tender touch deepened and Thorin’s lips claimed his, a muffled sigh shredding the remains of his thoughts and leaving his mind black and full of Thorin. Thorin’s lips, Thorin’s warmth, Thorin’s-_

Gone.

Bilbo tried to sip from his tea in frustration, then wrinkled his mouth. Cold. Again.

All right, he decided. All right. That was a cup of tea too many. Thorin may have stolen his sleep and his peace, not to mention his peace of mind, but no one, NO ONE, messed with Bilbo Baggins’ tea.

Yes. That summed it up.

He can do it. He can do it. He knows how to drive a car. He does it about once a week. Or a month. Or -

Bilbo snatched the keys from the drawer, ignoring the three minutes he spent fumbling in said drawer for his car keys, and strode toward the door resolutely. He used to drive quite a bit when he was younger. Driving a car is like riding a bike, right? Once you learn, you never forget, yeah?

Bilbo walked outside and marched toward the car, then ran back inside to turn off the gas and lock the door. Finding himself locked inside his house, Bilbo cursed, stomped outside, then locked his door. Right. Ered Luin. It’s just driving up, right?

He unlocked his car – an old lady, really, but still running – and sat inside. Ahh. He missed the smell of old leather and dust. Right. Shivering in his seat he turned the heating on.

Nothing happened. Right again.

Bilbo then inserted the car key and turned. The car rumbled its displeasure but refused to be moved. Bilbo muttered and tried igniting the engine again. The car growled, and Bilbo’s eyes lit with hope… and no. The sleeping beauty was still sleepy.

Bilbo patted the wooden dashboard with frustrated affection. “You can do it, come on,” he encouraged the creaky metal. “We’re going on an adventure.”

He tried to twist the key a third time.

The car rumbled and grumbled and teetered and tottered and, with a sudden jump, breathed alive.

Bilbo sighed. Step one, done. Now, before he froze to death, he turned the air conditioning on

Cold air blew in his face and froze his nose.

“Ow! You want me to get sick, don’t you!” Bilbo turned the air vents away from him. “You cold, heartless piece of metal.”

The car groused.

Bilbo sighed. “Just stay with me for the ride, yes?”

The car didn’t answer, so Bilbo switched gears and pushed the gas pedal and… yes. Like a bike. The car hissed and hummed its way out of Hobbiton, the wheels gliding a bit too smoothly on the salted road. Bilbo, hands clutching the steering wheel almost superstitiously, kept his eyes glued to the road and ignored the blinking lights, the sparkling snow, and the mouth-watering scent of Christmas lunch and Christmas cookies and the lovely blue sky, as blue as –

The car slid slightly as he turned too sharply at what was supposed to be a gentle curve. Bilbo grumbled and gripped the steering wheel. He can do this. He can drive a car, he can find Ered Luin, and he can… should he have brought something? Come to think of it, he was about to visit, unannounced, and it was just a week after Christmas so no doubt arriving empty handed –

Another near slide. Damn, Bilbo! Focus. Fool of a Took, really. That was the Took blood in him, making him drive away on a crazy adventure to the nearby village when really he should be home, in his armchair, reading his books. Yes.

_“I need to go. I… I need to go.”_

_“It’s snowing. Thorin, maybe you should wait-“_

_“No, I- it’s fine. I am fine, I mean, the weather is fine. I have to- goodbye.”_

_“Thorin, wait! Did I…?”_

_“No. No. No, I just have to… go.” His hand on Bilbo’s cheek, melting like a snowflake near the fire. “Goodnight, Bilbo.”_

_And he stormed out into the snow like the storm_ _in Bilbo’s heart, like a perfect kiss with a perfect stranger, crushing flowers in his fist._

And he nearly missed the turn and drove to Grey Havens instead. Geeze, Bilbo. Focus.

The drive was lovely, actually. The mountains gleamed like jewels and the day was bright and the air vents finally blew warm air in his face so his nose forgo the notion of going on vacation without the rest of the head attached. Hmm. He fumbled with the buttons and smiled when the radio creaked to life, humming a wistful tune about mist and mountains and cold.

The road slowly started to climb. His car did not like this. Bilbo gave her an encouraging pat and navigated carefully up the mountain. The road was zigzagging up, the mountain wall was blue-ish in shade, and Bilbo tried to focus on that instead of on the abyss on the other side of the road.

Slowly and carefully, up and up he went. A nagging feeling made him wonder if there was another thing he forgot, besides a pecan pie. Chunks of snow glimmered on the margins, but thankfully not on the road itself. The radio died, then sprung back to life, singing a boisterous and happy tune in a language he did not know -

“…Nishte, nishte lehaim! Lehaim, lehaim, nishte!”

“Jesus!” Bilbo squeaked.

The radio continued in defiance, “Nishte lehaim, nishte yahdaive-“

“That’s enough of that, thank you!” Bilbo turned the radio off. He was still in England, wasn’t he? Not… what language was that? It didn’t sound Scottish. Definitely not English, however. Well, even in the mountains, he should still be able to find English speaking radio stations.

Bilbo decided to switch the radio on, twisting the radio dial carefully. He did manage to catch chopped whispers of what that may have been Jingle Bells and another of what may have been a talk show - did they say a storm was coming? He couldn’t hear – but the sound that won was the almost drunk singing from before.

“…Ach bevoe ha’erev ba hazman lilgom! Nishte, nishte lehaim!”

Bilbo gave up. He turned off the music, then turned it back on when the sound of the whimpering car barely sliding up the mountain put his nerves on edge.

Let the drunk men sing.

The car grumbled, his knuckles whitened, the sun shone and the engine hummed and – oh. Finally. A house.

Bilbo had never been this happy in his life to see a sign of civilization. A house.

Behind that house lay another house, and another, and another, lovely cottages of stone built into the face of the mountain, each adorned with a chimney smoking like the Old Gaffer on a rainy day.

The houses, oddly enough, bore no Christmas decorations. No light strings blinked brightly at him, no wreaths decorated the doors, no green and red ribbons adorned the walls. The windows did not boast a pine tree, but instead, a metal… candelabra?

Bilbo furrowed his brow.

Maybe he did venture into Scotland.

It suddenly dawned on him that no house was going to have a large sign on it that said, ‘Thorin’. Bilbo wondered if he had the courage to go from door to door and… nope. No, he did not.

He did, however, have the courage to ask the two men who walked just a bit farther ahead. One of them boasted a large, white beard and a red sweater – maybe he was dressed as Santa? – the thought encouraged him enough to drive his car toward them, turn off the radio, and roll down a window.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

The men turned. The taller fellow – large guy, bulging muscles, menacing eyes – turned to glare at him.

Bilbo gulped.

The bearded Santa’s expression, thank god, was a bit kinder. “Yes?” he asked.

Bilbo opened and closed his mouth, then coughed weakly.

The tall man’s eyes narrowed.

Bilbo did _not_ whimper. This was a bad, bad, bad idea -

“Are you from the Shire?” asked Santa Claus.

“Hrmph?” Bilbo shook his head. He was capable of words, was he not? “Yes? I mean – How’d you…” He glanced around, checked his car. “How’d you know?”

“You are not from here,” Santa Claus pointed out.

Bilbo tilted his head, then shook it. Maybe all men dressed as Santa are omniscient? The giant next to Santa glared at him in distaste – or was it a promise of violence? – so he dismissed his confusion and declared, “I am looking for someone, actually.”

Santa Claus waited.

Bilbo suddenly realized he did not even know Thorin’s last name. His ears burned.

“…Yes?” Santa encouraged him.

The man next to him grumbled something in a language which was NOT English. Dear god –

“Am I in Scotland?” Bilbo inquired. It took him a moment to realize he spoke out loud.

Santa furrowed his forehead. “I’m afraid not. This is Ered Luin. If you want to go to Scotland, I suggest you book a flight. I don’t think your car will survive the journey.”

“Or you,” grumbled the big, definitely not friendly, giant.

“No, that’s good- I mean, not the car. Ered Luin. I thought I got lost. The radio played a song, I mean, ehrm.”

Santa looked mildly concerned.

He can’t disappoint Santa, now can he? Deep breath, be brave. “I am looking for a guy named Thorin? I don’t know his last name. He has two nephews? Fili and Kili… I think… do you happen to know a guy by that name? I mean, I don’t know how many Thorins-“

“There is only one Thorin, lad,” Santa eyed him curiously. “We know him.”

“Oh.” Relief washed over him like warm water. His cheeks flushed red under the scrutinizing look. “Could you direct me to – “

“You think he’s oak charm?” Santa asked.

Bilbo blinked once. Twice. “I- I’m sorry?”

The man next to him huffed. “Looks more like an acorn to me.”

Bilbo still felt too confused to be offended. “E-excuse me?”

Santa chuckled. “I see your point.”

“Excuse me!” Bilbo snapped. He gulped when the two turned to glare at him simultaneously. “I am most certainly –“ He did not know what an acorn meant, however. Maybe it wasn’t a belittling term for… hmm. Besides, he did not want to rub Santa’s giant the wrong way. “What’s an acorn?” he asked carefully.

“A seed from which oak trees grow.” Santa chuckled when Bilbo bristled. “Dwalin here serves in the army with Thorin.”

The giant nodded in response. “You gave him a necklace to match him name, eh?”

That almost sounded like an accusation. “His – his name?” he stuttered.

Santa shook his head. He clasped Dwalin’s shoulder, silencing him. “Drive all the way straight to the last cottage. It’s pretty big, you won’t miss it. Can your car make it?”

“Yes. I… I hope.” Bilbo nodded his thanks. “Merry Christmas!” he called.

Santa looked a tad confused. He waved uncertainly. “Yes. Merry Christmas.”

Bilbo never felt so good to drive away from people in his life. He could see them still looking at him from the rear-view mirror. Oh boy.

He drove through. The radio, which he turned on again, filled the car with a soft, yet still oddly sharp and combatant singing voice of a female.

“…Ha’iru, ha’iru, nerot Hanukkah rabim…”

Last cottage. Right.

Bilbo continued to navigate, surprised by the efficient, wide, well designed streets. He noted the children playing by spinning... something, in any case, and wondered if he could make it down back to Hobbiton in time for New Year’s.

This journey set every nerve he ever had on fiery edge.

The cottages began to dwindle and large, severe trees loomed instead. Bilbo missed the happy, round trees of the Shire, with their gently spreading boughs and unassuming lumpiness. The trees of Ered Luin reminded him too much of perfectly ordered columns to really feel like part of nature.

And that, he mused as he stared ahead, groaning, must have been Thorin’s cottage. God bless Santa, he should have said mansion. That would have… yes. That would have saved him from having to drive in reverse on an icy road. And would have made swallowing his own nervousness easier. Probably.

Bilbo eased the car up the driveway, yet parked at the very bottom of the road. He did not feel comfortable parking his battered car next to that awfully giant house. He felt dwarfed by its size.

Thorin failed to mention he was rich, damn it.

Bilbo closed his mouth. He can knock on doors. He knocked on all sorts of doors all his life, in all shapes and sizes. Very agreeable doors, and a good deal less self-important than some doors half its rank – he knocked.

_Are we to receive every Baggins in the country?_

The door opened. A lovely woman with sharp, blue eyes, a strong jaw, and a crown of dark locks looked down on him. Her eyes narrowed.

Bilbo shifted in discomfort. The woman was at least a head taller than he. “Ehrm. Merry Christmas,” he offered. Manners maketh man, or something like that.

“Is it still? I never quite know.” The woman had a sharp, no nonsense tone. She smiled. “Though I do love the view of the village, lit like a giant toy. Can I help you?”

Bilbo shook his head to clear his confusion. Must be the mountain air. These people… “I heard Thorin… err, a man by the name of Thorin lived here? I’m Bilbo,” he introduced himself, cheeks burning. Should have started with that, probably.

The woman’s eyes lit up. She barked a loud, ‘ha!’ and grabbed his hand for a shake. “Not _the_ Bilbo who makes such excellent cupcakes? My sons mention you nonstop – thank you for saving them, by the way. I should have known my brother was too incompetent to handle them. Lead a charge? Yes, but watch over two boys? I’m Dis, his sister. Do come in.”

When he hesitated, she opened the door wider and pulled him into the house. She closed the door behind him and walked toward the living room. Bilbo, flustered, followed. Uncertain and baffled, his eyes scurried over the unexpected interior design of the house.

Some things were expected from a stone mansion up in the mountains – rugs of fur, mounted deer heads (a lot of mounted deer heads. One might think they held a grudge against deer), giant fire places, roaring fire, the usual. There were, however, quite a few objects that caught his eye. A candelabra of silver, for example, and piles upon piles of books decorating almost every wall. Two silver candlesticks and an ornate goblet rested inside a cabinet of glass, and below them lay a lavish… sheep horn?

No pine tree, however, or stockings or green or red decorations. Bilbo frowned.

The woman, Dis, returned. She scrutinized him, then smiled. “Would you like a doughnut?” She held a tray of doughnuts, fluffy sweets dusted with sugar powder that did not look like any doughnut he was familiar with. For one thing, they did not have a hole in the middle.

“Oh, sure, why not.” He took one, conscious of her eyes following the movement of his hand. Discomfited, he took a cautious bite. First, sugar powder melted on his tongue. Then, warm jelly and soft, sweet, deep fried dough flooded his mouth and his senses. He huffed in half surprise, half moan. Boy, those things were –

He blinked, then looked up.

Dis’ eyes widened and she laughed again. “Just don’t fill up on those, yes? Save some room for dinner! And if the boys ask, you did not see nor eat a single doughnut.” She turned around, probably heading for the kitchen, then turned back to face him. “And when I say ‘boys’, I mean Thorin as well. On the first day of his return from the army, he ate a whole tray.”

Bilbo swallowed the last bite and licked his finger. “On… on the first day?” But didn’t he come to his house and ate a full course dinner…?

Dis winked at him. “I heard you punished him for his gluttony.”

Bilbo’s ears heated. “Oh. I didn’t, I mean, I assumed, after the army – I thought, I assumed that army food isn’t, isn’t satisfying, so –“

He didn’t get a chance to fail entirely at stringing a sentence together, for a thunder – was it a thunder? no, just the roar of two pairs of stomping feet – struck him speechless.

Two boys (may Santa bless Dis, but she really should have given them names that were slightly less similar) appeared at the entrance to the living room. Their faces, which were mutinous, brightened at the sight of him.

“Bilbo!” they cried, then raced to hug him.

Bilbo swallowed his shock and opened his arms, just in time, to catch the – nope – to fall to the floor, his hands full of hair and… and bandages?

“Do be gentle with our guest!” Dis hollered from the kitchen.

The boys released him and sat up, smiling brightly.

“Did you bring cupcakes?” inquired the youngest, eyes like melted chocolate.

“Or cookies? We liked your cookies, too,” added the blond-haired youth, trying to sound more considerate.

Not bandages. No, they wore… round, flat pieces of fabric, clipped to their hair. Bilbo shook his head. “No, I… I didn’t bring anything. I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting…” Oh, the light fading from their eyes is going to scar him for eternity, isn’t it? “I’ll make you some for next time, I promise,” he declared.

“When is next time?” probed the younger boy. Which one was Kili and which was Fili, again?

“Oh. Erm. I don’t…”

“Did you eat a sufganiyah?” demanded the eldest. “You have jelly on your cheek.”

Bilbo quickly wiped his cheek. “A suph… a what?” Then he remembered Dis’ warning and, to play it safe, quickly corrected himself. “No, I most certainly did not.”

“How do you know you didn’t eat it if you don’t know what it is?”

“Yeah! What Fili said!”

“Err, well…-“

“Boys! Come help set the table!” Dis cried from the kitchen.

The boys grumbled and stood up. Bilbo rose as well, then choked when the youngest – Kili? – caught him in a bone crushing hug, then fled to join his brother.

Bilbo shook his head. He still hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on, but he had to go and find Thorin and leave before dinner… Oh, it was already dark. Must be after six already, which meant he’d have to drive in the dark – oh boy – but he could not invite himself to dinner. Heck, he just appeared out of nowhere! That was rude enough, but to stay –

“Bilbo?”

Was he blushing? Oh god, please let his cheeks be less red than Santa’s sweater – he turned around.

Thorin, accompanied by a tall, bearded man, stood in the hallway.

Thorin stood in the hallway.

Thorin looked at him.

“Hello,” Bilbo managed.

The shifting look in Thorin’s eyes – happy, then uncertain, then cautious, almost fearful – formed a lump in his throat he found hard to swallow. Thorin was not happy to see him in his home. The whole thing was just a bad idea. He should leave. He should leave now. Leave this weird, cold, strange town and… and just leave.

“Who are you?” asked the man who stood next to Thorin. He had long, gray beard, black streaked with silver, and large, bushy eyebrows. He wore a suit and stood poised, back straight and eyes sharp. Thorin looked less formal in a sweater, though underneath it he also wore a tie and a dress shirt. And a distractingly flattering pair of jeans.

Bilbo did not want to think about his lumpy coat and the jacket underneath. At least his vest had nice buttons.

“I am Bilbo. Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He walked toward the men and offered his hand for a shake.

The older man, who probably was Thorin’s father, scrutinized him thoroughly before shaking his hand. He had a firm grip. “You do not look like army material,” he rumbled. “How do you know my son? Or is it my daughter you came to visit?” His grip tightened

Bilbo rescued his nearly crushed hand from the man’s grip. He dared one glance in Thorin’s direction. His eyes widened when he registered the undeniable pleading in the man’s blue, blue eyes.

Oh. _Oh_. His heart sank. Well, that almost explained Thorin’s disappearance. It most certainly explained why he was not pleased by his surprise visit. Stupid. So. Bloody. Stupid.

Should have stayed at home and burned yet another blueberry pie.

“I own a bookshop. In Hobbiton. Thorin is a… frequent visitor.”

“Really?” The man’s voice had a low, coarse quality to it. “You must have quite an extensive collection of military related writings. I haven’t seen him read anything else.” Was there a touch of criticism in that comment?

Thorin bowed his head slightly to look his father. “I read biographies as well,” he protested.

Both men, Bilbo noticed, wore a round, knitted piece of cloth on their heads.

“But not the book of God, the only biography you need to read.” The man dismissed him. “I am Thrain, Thorin’s father. Come, light a candle with us.”

“Light… what?”

Thrain paused. “A candle. The last candle of Hanukkah.” He smacked his son’s ear and turned to face Bilbo again. “We are Jewish. You are most welcome to stay and share the last day of Hanukkah with us.”

Well that… that explained quite a bit, actually. Bilbo’s heart fluttered uneasily when the glance he directed at Thorin was met with an undecipherable glare.

“That’s lovely, thank you. I didn’t know, I would’ve brought… err, something in the spirits of the holiday.”

Thrain led him to the dining room, shaking his head at him. “We do not judge our guests by the quality of their offerings.” He picked a round, knitted piece of cloth and pinned it to Bilbo’s curls.

Thorin hissed, “Father-“

“Hush. Your head must be covered during the ceremony. You can remove the kippah afterward, if you’d like,” Thrain commanded.

Bilbo did not protest. He guessed he must have looked ridiculous, but did not dare to try and fix the… kip-thing.

The dining room was as spacious as one might expect. Dis stood next to a large window, holding a candelabra and filling each of the nine candle holders with oil. Then, she inserted nine small wicks, carefully and slowly, while completely ignoring the two boys who were running around the table shouting stories about a fall of a… house? And elephants?

They stopped when they saw him and ran to his side, each grabbing a hand.

“Bilbo sits next to me!”

“No, me!”

“Me!”

“I can sit next to both of you,” offered Bilbo. He turned to look at Thorin, again – will he object? Smile? But the man clenched his jaw and kept his silence.

“You know my grandsons?” Thrain demanded.

“Err, yes, we met during Ha-“

“I took them to see the Bookshop,” Thorin interrupted.

Fili and Kili bobbed their heads in such enthusiastic agreement that the kippahs almost escaped the grip of the hairpins

Thrain turned to study Bilbo. “You must have quite a shop,” he observed.

“Oh? Err… maybe?”

Thrain nodded sagely. “The humble He guides in justice, and the humble He teaches his way.”

Bilbo shot a confused look at Thorin, but the man shook his head slightly, so Bilbo held his tongue.

Kili and Fili took his hands and led him to the window. Then Thrain sang a verse in a language unknown to Bilbo and Fili, young face adorned with awe and concentration, lit each of the nine wicks. Dis placed the… candelabra? Next to the window and Bilbo’s eyes lit with wonder when he saw windows of cottages from afar lit with similar glow. It was, he had to admit, quite lovely.

The entire family began to sing a loud song in a language he did not know. The words felt harsh and commanding, and the foreign feeling intimidating, but Bilbo looked up and tried to focus on the sound of Thorin singing.

It was quite a lovely sound, really. Deep and velvety, yet not quite smooth, a warmth which encompassed Bilbo’s chest cavity with notes and words unfamiliar to him.

If Thorin felt his eyes on him, he ignored him quite admirably. In fact, of not for the bright red tips of Thorin’s ears, Bilbo would have felt quite dejected.

The singing was over and Bilbo was ushered to the table. Thrain sat at the head of the table, Thorin next to him on the left and Fili on the right. Bilbo sat next to Fili and Kili, and Dis, who moved to seat next to them, rose with a fluttering of skirts to answer the door.

Boisterous laughter followed and soon Fili and Kili also jumped from their seats and rushed to – Bilbo turn around – to try and jump on the menacing giant from before.

The menacing giant – Dwalin, was it? – laughed and grabbed them, unaffected by their vigorous attempted to take him down. He threw Kili up on his shoulder and lifted Fili up with the other. “Be careful, little lion, or I will swallow you whole!”

“You can’t eat him!” Kili protested, wriggling.

“No? Then I will eat you instead!” Dwalin roared and Kili squealed, quite delighted.

“Put the boys down, Dwalin. You can play with them after dinner,” Santa admonished him.

“Play?” Dwalin roared. “This is a battle!”

“Like Balin said, after dinner,” ordered Dis. “Or no dessert. That means all three of you.”

Dwalin’s expression cracked. “Well, you heard your mother.” He released the protesting youth and looked up. “Acorn!”

Bilbo’s face burned. “E-excuse me?”

Dwalin took off his large coat. Bilbo was disgruntled to find out he was still a giant underneath. “He is oak charm, isn’t he, Thorin?”

Thorin, if anything, was white. “I don’t know what you mean,” he hissed.

Balin rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t mean anything. Bilbo, wasn’t it? Glad to see you made it.”

Dwalin huffed. “We thought you’re going to roll down the mountain with that car. How did you climb without sliding off? You didn’t even put snow chains.”

Bilbo furrowed his brow. “Snow chains?”

Balin sighed as Dwalin rumbled something that sounded unfit for children.

“Glad to see you are still alive.” Balin smiled, effectively ending the discussion.

Dwalin sat next to Thorin, Balin next to Dwalin, and Bilbo stared at Thorin miserably as the man elbowed his friend.

Balin, on the other hand, smiled serenely at him.

Dis arrived, carrying large dinner plates full of fish, meat, pasta, potatoes of all sorts, and some more meat. They didn’t seem to be very fond of salads, or anything growing, really, other than chips and broiled potatoes.

Dwalin emptied half a dinner plate into his personal plate and Balin took the other half. Fili and Kili fought over the potatoes and every piece of meat that landed near them. Thorin and Thrain did keep their sides clean, but filled their plates up to the brim.

Bilbo stared at them, too shocked to manage to fill his plate. The food disappeared with speed he was not quite used to.

He blinked twice when a dinner plate appeared underneath his nose.

He looked up to find Thorin, posture screaming army, offering him the last of the dinner plates with his hand so perfectly straight and his back so perfectly poised and oh bloody hell just accept the dish.

He did. His body was a lot less graceful at managing the task.

Dis returned one final time with one more plate, the contents of which filled her own, and sat down.

“So, Bilbo, you own a bookshop?” Dis inquired.

Bilbo lowered the almost empty dinner plate carefully. He gracefully ignored Kili, who, in his attempt to slice his steak, splashed Bilbo’s face with sauce.

Bilbo cleaned his face. “Err, yes?”

“Didn’t know you read,” Dwalin snickered, glancing at Thorin.

Thorin cuffed him.

“What books did Thorin buy?” Balin smiled. Was that a mischievous smile? Surely not.

“Well, ehrm. He mostly browsed.”

“Maybe he was checking something else out,” Dwalin muttered.

Thorin cuffed him again.

Thrain rumbled, “Thorin, you are not five. Behave. Dwalin, stop teasing my son.”

“Yes, sir,” the men answered.

They were not joking, apparently. Even Fili and Kili did not snicker.

Thrain opened a newspaper and began to read.

Dis slapped Kili’s back when the boy took too big a bit and began to choke on it. Fili, meanwhile, stole Dwalin’s last fry. Dwalin tried to steal Fili’s potato, but was thwarted by Thorin’s knife. The men began fencing discreetly, hiding the battle from Thrain with a napkin. Fili and Kili froze with the food dripping from their forks. Meanwhile, Balin managed to eat half of Dwalin’s steak before the man noticed and tried to fork Balin’s fish.

Dis appeared about ready to burst a vein.

Balin managed to flip Dwalin’s fork from his grip but Dwalin, growling, stole the sauce spoon and spilled gravy on the once clean tablecloth. Thorin caught Fili trying to steal Bilbo’s potato and glared.

Fili returned the offending vegetable.

Thrain raised his eyes. “Dwalin, what are you doing?”

Dwalin returned the spoon to Dis, whose eyes glared daggers at him. “Nothing.”

“Are you eating with a spoon?”

“I lost my fork.”

“Is the fork incident also the reason for the dismal state of the table cloth?”

“That was Balin.”

Balin faked perfect innocence.

Thrain sighed. “Laundry and kitchen duty. Both of you.”

Bilbo moved his fish away from the reach of Kili’s fork. “Excuse me, were you… are you also in the army?” he asked politely.

“I was a general,” Thrain replied. “I quit after my son died. Thorin continued to serve.”

The tense atmosphere prickled Bilbo’s throat. The cheerful mood from before cooled much like the sauce wetting Bilbo’s pants. Apparently, engaging Thrain in any sort of conversation was a bad idea. “I am very sorry to hear that,” he offered sincerely.

Thrain dismissed him. “My son died honorably. My other son received a medal and a promotion. The youngest Colonel in a decade. Dwalin is his Lieutenant Colonel. He was also promoted.”

“Father, it is Hanukkah,” Dis reminded him.

“And what of it? Is my son less dead on Hanukkah than he is on any other day?”

Dis hissed, “You have two sons.”

Thorin’s knuckles turned white. “Dis –“

“I _had_ two sons.” Thrain turned to focus his glare on Bilbo again.

Bilbo secretly begged the expensive wooden floors to open up and swallow him whole.  

“They call my son ‘Oakenshield,’ did you know that? He won the battle and saved the day with a piece of oak. We are the most advanced nation – the British Empire – and my son fights with a branch. What do you say to that?” He glared at Dis.

The woman sat rigidly, face white and eyes blazing. “I say that Thorin did what he had to do, and I thank God every day for every moment he is with us.”

“I oversaw that battle. I commanded it. Do you think I wished my son dead?”

“All I am saying is, you should cut your _living_ son some slack.”

“He had a gun! A gun and grenades and years of the best training, he earned the best marks and yet –“

“Father!”

“Excuse me.” Thorin rose. “Dis, dinner was lovely.” He left the table.

Dis turned to hiss at her father, “Stop blaming him! Frerin was leading his own unit. Thorin wasn’t even there. He couldn’t possibly know Frerin was cornered until after the battle. And you should know this because you, as you said, oversaw the battle.”

Bilbo’s hands pushed him away from the table, his body propped itself up –

“You should stay here.”

Bilbo looked up.

Dwalin stared him down. He rose, muttered a quick, ‘excuse me,’ and went after Thorin.

Bilbo looked down. He couldn’t help but feel it was this fault. A leg kicked his gently and he looked up to find Balin shaking his head imperceptibly. His smile was warm, but his eyes were foggy.

Dis and Thrain started a staring contest, apparently. Each stared at the other and refused to blink.

“Lovely dinner, Dis. Your cooking is second to none,” Balin complimented cautiously.

Kili looked up. “Bilbo’s cupcakes are better.”

Fili punched him. “You are not supposed to say that.”

Dis smiled. The twist of her lips was grim and brittle. She turned to look at Bilbo. “Maybe we should compare them sometime. You wouldn’t shy from a little competition, would you?”

Bilbo was lost. He was too lost to do anything but nod, not sure what exactly he just agreed to.

Thrain rose. He started at his knuckles. “Acorn.”

Bilbo froze. He felt as if the room froze with him.

“Why do they call you acorn?”

“They…? Who? Err, nobody calls me ‘acorn.’ I think? Today was the first… first time? I’m not…”

Balin cut through his stuttered response. “Dwalin was making fun of his height, nothing more,” he said nonchalantly.

“Well, Excuse m-“

Balin kicked him under the table.

Thrain shook his head. “I am going to read in my study.” He left. The general aura of disapproval clashed with the merry dancing of the candlelight.

Bilbo waited until he was out of earshot. “Oh, god, I am so sorry – “

“Don’t bother. I should have warned you. I shouldn’t have assumed Thorin told you anything.” Dis stifled a sigh. “Did you like the flowers?”

“The… flowers?”

“I told Thorin to bring you flowers. He’s fairly bad at anything that doesn’t include ordering people around.”

“O-oh. Yes. I… I liked them,” he hedged. “I… I don’t understand.”

Dis nodded. “Thrain doesn’t know.” She rose and did not explain, ignoring the two pairs of curious, childish eyes.

“Who wants dessert?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... just a few notes:  
> \- the lyrics Bilbo hears are the Hebrew version of 'To Life' and 'Days of Hanukkah.'  
> \- quite a few literary references! Pride and Prejudice and BFG just to name a few. If you spotted them (or anything else) do share!
> 
> Just because Thrain is the antagonist doesn't mean this piece is anti-Semitic. I really dont want ANYONE to get that impression. I know that Tolkien was inspired by Judaism when he wrote his version of the dwarves, so I wanted to incorporate that. Thrain is not evil. He is a grieving man who happens to be Jewish and, like many people of many orthodox religions, has a backward view of gay people. That's all.
> 
> Now... next chapter might get a bit... racy. I want your help to know HOW racy. The rating will go up, but I dont know if I should write a smut scene or not. What do you think? Should I keep the rating low? I know not everyone likes smut so I'd love to know what you think. Thank you so much!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... only two months behind, now!  
> Valentine special (hopefully, but I can't promise anything!) next week?
> 
> This chapter has a bit of smut closer to the end. The rest of the chapters will be G or T. I will warn in advance if the a chapter contains anything racier =)
> 
> That's it! Hope you like!

Bilbo refused to feel bad after he indulged himself in his third… doughnut. Or whatever it was called. Kili and Fili sat on the floor and played with their dreidels. They invited him to join them, but their game was a tad more violent than the one he remembered.

Dis led Balin to the kitchen, commanding and cursing (probably) in a language he did not know. Balin, apparently, was trying to calm her down. Thorin and Dwalin did not return, as did Thrain.

Bilbo wondered when would it be the best time to announce his departure. He came to speak with Thorin, but Thorin was gone. It was already dark outside, but he had more than enough time to make it to the new year’s party.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

Bilbo jumped. He turned to see Santa, no, Balin? standing in the doorway.

Dis went to play with her sons, spinning the dreidels with surprising proficiency, if he interpreted the boys’ cheers correctly.

Balin smiled kindly and crossed the distance to him. “That was very nice of you, coming over.”

“Really?” Bilbo’s smile was brittle. “I think Thorin would disagree with you.”

Balin shook his head. “The lad isn’t very good at saying what he wants to say. He can handle hardships, yes, going into battle after less than three hours of sleep, sleeping on thorns and rocks, pitching a tent in the dark and the snow… aye. We all did that. Thorin never complained. But going down to your bookshop each day? That’s a different kind of courage. Even if he did not manage to say a single word to you.” Balin chuckled.

Bilbo’s lips twisted upward, fighting the instinct that pulled them in the opposite direction. “I… I understand. I think. I assumed too much, coming out - here. Coming here, I meant. I should go.”

Balin’s smile faded. “Now? But it’s dark! And, forgive me, but you don’t seem like much of a… driver. And your car – “

“I can manage. Excuse me.”

“Bilbo – “

“I just… I’m sorry. Yes. Good night. And happy new year. Yes.” He marched toward the living room, unsure where he was heading but knew it had to be _out_. Just out. Did they all make fun of him? Calling him acorn and mocking his bookshop… were Thorin’s visits a game for them, as well? They all knew, apparently, except him, that Thorin had no intention to be serious about –

A hand on the shoulder froze him in place. “Please, stay. Don’t do this to him.”

Bilbo shook Balin’s hand off. “Don’t touch me. This – I don’t think it’s funny, all right? So I’m – “

“We don’t think it’s – this isn’t a joke, Bilbo!” Balin hissed, urgency laced in his tone. In his eyes. “We… we were insensitive, I admit, but we meant no harm! Just to… to show that we are supportive of this. Of you.”

“Supportive?” Something in Bilbo snapped. “How supportive? Dis said that… Thrain doesn’t even know? That his son is – and that she shouldn’t be surprised that Thorin didn’t tell me – whatever it was he was supposed to tell me, I guess, and…”

Balin’s face hardened. The hard lines sucked the air out of Bilbo’s lungs. He felt at fault, like he was the one to blame, like he shouldn’t have accused Thorin of anything, like – _Well, they are his friends. His family. What did you expect? Just apologize and leave. Leave now._

“Thrain is the rabbi of the Ered Luin and Thorin’s father. While most… nearly all the community is open minded, Thrain is not. The army is not. Thorin is… you saw a glimpse of his burdens. Coming out isn’t something he can easily do.”

“No, because for me it was just so bloody easy.”

Oh no. Not that stupid patronizing pity. No. No. No.

“Bilbo?” That was Dis, looking… oh, and the boys too. All looking at him. Great.

He removed the piece of cloth from his hair, wincing when the hairpin tore a few strands of hair from his scalp.  “Dinner was lovely, Dis. Thank you. And happy… Hanukkah, was it? Yes. Good night.”

Was the door always that far away? He didn’t remember that when he walked in. He didn’t remember the house was this big when he entered it, didn’t think so many people lived there, didn’t think that Thorin…

It was cold, on the other side of the door. Bilbo zipped up his lumpy jacket and shivered as he walked to his car. It was snowing, apparently. Great. He could hear faint musical notes, unfamiliar to him, drifting in the wind. The village on top of the mountain looked lovely, windows sparkling like jewels, delicate candlelight reflected in the swirling snowflakes, chimneys coughing smoke, clouds dancing in the silver moonlight…

He should never have come there. That sight was not meant for him.

The car door creaked when he finally managed to open it. His fingers, frozen, failed to insert the key once, twice – struck gold on the third try. Now, start the car. _Come on, old lady, you can do it,_ he thought, trying to encourage the frozen piece of metal with a friendly pat.

He should have brought gloves. His hands were blue.

_Come on, you can do it, don’t leave me stranded here, please please please don’t leave me stranded here. Please ignite before someone sees me. Come on now, you can do it, you can –_

“Hey!”

Oh, for crying out loud.

Bilbo tried, frantically, to turn the key, but the car coughed and grumbled and returned to sleep. Right.

He refused to look up, even when he could hear the tell-tale sound of crunching snow growing louder and louder. Someone was running toward his car. He didn’t want to look up at the speaker.

The speaker paused, huffed, and slowed his breath. He stood there in silence, apparently not sure what to say.

Bilbo didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

“You can’t leave.”

Bilbo froze.

“Your car won’t make it.”

Bilbo’s knuckles turned white. He didn’t care if the tone was trying to appease him. “Well, sorry for not having a fancy car or living in a fancy house. It pulled through, all right?” He tried to turn the key one more time. Still no response.

“Hey, I…” Thorin uncrossed his hands. He bent a bit, but Bilbo refused to look up. “It’s not safe. You… stay.”

This time, he did not find Thorin’s poor communication skills to be endearing. “Listen, mister I-am-not-gay, I wasted enough time here. So no, I will not stay, and you can find another acorn, or whatever, because I – “

“Bilbo – “

“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry. I’ll be leaving now, or, whenever the engine – “

“Bilbo.” A hand on his silenced him. Thorin exhaled weakly but failed to find the words to express what he wanted to say.

Bilbo removed his hand. He didn’t care how warm Thorin was. “You just… you disappeared. I thought I did something wrong. Maybe, err, maybe… I don’t know. You disappeared.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I… my father expected me to – “

“Your father. Right.” He looked away stubbornly.

“I never had a reason to… to tell him, before.”

That soft hesitation in Thorin’s voice would break him. It cannot break him. “So I’ll just wait down in Hobbiton until you find a reason, yes?”

“You can be my reason.”

Bilbo looked up. He had to look up. Thorin couldn’t have possibly meant those words. He – but Thorin looked him straight in the eye, unblinking, like a soldier preparing to charge. The only thing to betray his hesitation, the fear of rejection, was a jaw clenched tight.

Bilbo looked away. “It’s something you should do for yourself. Not for someone else. I didn’t come out to please a boyfriend. And it wasn’t – it’s never easy. I know I’m not a soldier and my parents aren’t alive but it’s never easy so I don’t care if you think that it’s just something I did on a whim because it wasn’t – what are you doing?”

The question stumbled out of his lips, breathless and trembling, when Thorin slowly lowered himself to kneel in the snow, in front of Bilbo, who still sat frozen in his freezing car. He knelt.

“I know. I’m sorry. Stay.”

Vulnerability was the wrong word. It couldn’t have been the right word. Thorin kneeling in the snow, looking up at him, unblinking, eyes so blue and cheeks so rosy, snow caught in his hair and jacket, should not have moved him so. But he did.

“Get – just get up, you are going to be sick! What on earth are –“ Bilbo rose, left the safety of his car, grabbed Thorin’s hand and tried to pull him up.

Thorin held his hand. He didn’t move. “You’ll stay?”

Bilbo huffed in frustration. He did not try to pull his hand away, and he most definitely did not feel Thorin’s thumb stroking his knuckles. “Stay – Thorin, where am I going to stay, exactly? I don’t have money for – never mind that, it’s New Year’s Eve and I’d rather be…” _alone, as usual,_ “at the party. In the Shire.”

Thorin didn’t move. His eyes looked nowhere but up at Bilbo. There was something desperate hiding in the stormy blue. “You can stay with me.”

Bilbo scoffed. “I am not going into that mansion again. At least, not today. No.”

“Bilbo, I’m thirty-nine. I don’t live with my father.”

That… that made sense. Bilbo felt his objections melting like the frost on the hand that Thorin held. “Do you have a guest bedroom?” he muttered.

“I have a sofa.”

“Right.”

“You can have the bed.”

“I don’t…”

“I mean that.”

“Thorin…” He dared to look down, then. Down at those hopeful, tender eyes that less than an hour ago were clouded with so much pain and confusion. But they held hope, now. “Well – would you get out of that snow already? You are going to be sick tomorrow! This… erhm. Thorin!”

“Will you stay?” he insisted.

Bilbo glanced at his rebellious car. “Fine. Yes. Can’t go down the mountain anyway… will you get up already?”

Thorin rose. His jeans were dark and wet, but his smile was soft and so relieved. The light in his eyes made Bilbo blink several times uncomfortably. He liked that light. It looked beautiful on the man before him.

“You… you should probably change. Your pants – clothes! Your clothes. They are wet.”

Thorin nodded. He still smiled.

Bilbo shook his head, heart hammering, and turned around to close and lock his car. He released Thorin’s hand to do so, but the moment he finished, his hand was stolen and stuffed into a coat’s pocket quite unceremoniously. Bilbo’s fingers wriggled in protest against the hand that held his hostage, but Thorin simply nudged him on.

He intended to walk home, apparently.

“Will you let go of me?” Bilbo hissed.

“After I get you warm.”

Bilbo’s cheeks flushed. He scoffed, trying to hide his embarrassment.

“Is that…. bothering you?” The surprisingly soft tone stood in contrast to the calloused grip but was mirrored in the tender caress of his fingers.

Bilbo did not dare to look up at his tall companion. He squeezed the hand instead, holding it more firmly. “No,” he whispered.

Thorin squeezed his hand in response. The skin of his hand was coarse, and the grip was firm, but the gentleness of the touch was undeniable.

“Why didn’t you…” Bilbo paused, unsure how to phrase the question. “You disappeared. After... “ _after I kissed you_ , “After Christmas.”

“My father expected me to stay and help in the celebrations. I was… leaving would have been harder to explain.”

“But before, you…?”

“Dis managed that, somehow. She’s been… covering up for me.”

“I see.”

They walked in silence. The falling snow muffled their steps. Muted notes of singing and the delicious scent of fresh doughnuts filled the winter’s night with warmth. That, and the tender touch of Thorin’s fingers caressing his hand.

“So that Halloween visit...? You had to hide that from your father also?”

 Thorin hummed. “For a different reason. Some members of our community are opposed to participating in others’ traditions. My father, he’s the most conservative member. Dis doesn’t mind, and the boys asked, so…”

“I see,” Bilbo repeated. He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A gentle squeeze accompanied the softly spoken words.

“I came up here without asking or knowing whether… anything, really. Presumptuous, I know. I don’t even know your last name. I – “

“Durin.”

“What?” For a moment, Bilbo wondered if Thorin forgot his name.

“Thorin Durin. That’s… me.”

“Oh.”

“And that’s my house. It’s not… very fancy.”

Thorin led Bilbo to yet another stone cottage. It was by no means small, but not half as large as the mansion was. And icy cold.

Thorin turned on the lights and the heater, then immediately marched toward the fireplace and lit another heat source. He walked around and turned each light, one by one, leaving Bilbo in the middle of the living room.

So. One bedroom, which he could spot from his location. One visible bathroom. A large living room connected to a dining room. Couldn’t locate the kitchen. The place was somewhat bare, as if Thorin barely spent any time in his own home. He eyed the sofa critically.

Thorin returned, carrying two glasses of wine. “Don’t have tea,” he offered as an apology.

“Oh. That’s, err, fine.” He accepted the glass. Alcohol and snow and Thorin. Oh, boy. He sipped. “I… I don’t think you’ll fit, by the way.”

Thorin choked on his wine. He coughed, then, gingerly, took another, steadying sip. “Where, exactly, am I supposed to fit?” he rasped.

“The sofa.” Bilbo felt heat creeping everywhere, not just his face. “You are too tall.”

“Right. I’ll manage.”

“No, I mean, that’s fine, I can – your pants are still wet.”

“Hmm. They are.” Thorin offered his glass to him, which Bilbo accepted, and strode to the bedroom.

Bilbo tried not to think about said bedroom. He sank into the sofa – hard, cold, leather – _not fancy, my butt_ , and tried to lose himself in the hypnotizing dance of the fire. He also tried to ignore, to the best of his ability, the staccato sounds of doors slamming and things falling that emerged from Thorin’s bedroom.

He refused to think about that bedroom. Nope. He was going to sleep on that sofa even if that hard leather was going to kill him. Or his back.

Thorin appeared, clad in another, distractingly tight pair of jeans. “I… changed the sheets. And organized the room, a bit.”

Bilbo managed a smile. “You don’t seem to own enough things to be messy.”

Thorin offered half a smile. “Didn’t want you to trip on an SA80 or a bulletproof vest.” When Bilbo still looked confused, he added, “They are a pain. Especially if you bang your toe… I was actually supposed to lock everything up. Don’t – “

“Tell your father?”

Thorin looked sheepish. “Yes. Something like that.”

Bilbo felt a genuine smile teasing his lips. He offered Thorin his wine glass back, which the man gladly accepted.

The silence, however, unraveled his nerves into thin, loose strands. “What do you do here on New Year’s?”

Thorin smiled. Damn the man for smiling after he asked such a simple question. Damn him for looking so handsome when he smiled. “We celebrate the new year in September, actually. But,” he added when he noticed Bilbo’s slightly crestfallen expression, “I can take you somewhere. If you’d like.”

The earnest tone wrestled a ‘yes’ from his throat before he managed to even process the suggestion. “Err, I mean, if that doesn’t… inconvenient you, or…” Stupid! Of course it doesn’t inconvenient him, he offered it!

But it is polite to not immediately accept an offer, reminded a voice that sounded a lot like Drogo.

He offered! Of course it’s okay! Inner Prim reprimanded inner Drogo.

“You okay?”

Bilbo snapped to look up at Thorin. “What?”

Thorin smiled, uncertain. “You were making… expressions.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Were they weird?”

Thorin shrugged. “Funny. You do that thing with your nose. It’s… cute.”

Bilbo stared up blankly. “Cute.”

Thorin threw an extra coat at him. “It’s going to get cold.”

Bilbo barely caught the coat. “…’It’ is going to be outside?”

Thorin hummed and turned to turn off the lights, the heater, and the gas for the fireplace.

Bilbo missed them already. He struggled with the large coat far too long for comfort, then stared blankly at his knees when the coat managed to cover them too. He looked up, cheeks red, but Thorin kept a straight face. Well, mostly, but Bilbo did not have the heart to reprimand the spark out of his blue, blue eyes.

Thorin offered him his hand, which Bilbo readily accepted, and led him out of the house.

He could get used to having his hand held in another’s pocket, he mused. It was… warm.

Thorin’s next idea did not appear to be as warm, however. Bilbo lifted a questioning brow when Thorin tried to lead him off the road and into a large pile of snow.

Thorin’s eyes looked almost childishly excited. “It’s worth it,” he promised.

Bilbo didn’t actually hear what he said. He saw the look in Thorin’s eyes and followed him, speechless, off the cleared road. Which he only realized when he sunk knee deep in snow.

“Cold!”

“Snow usually is, yes.” Thorin chuckled.

Bilbo grumbled something, he wasn’t quite sure what, and followed Thorin into the wilderness of snow and hidden tree roots. He couldn’t feel his toes.

“Where are we going? It better be worth it, because I think I’m catching something.”

Thorin shrugged. “Hey, if that means you are going to stay longer…”

“Are you trying to get me sick on purpose?” Bilbo did his absolute best to sound scandalized.

“Here,” Thorin declared. He led them out of the trees and toward a cliff overlooking vast fields and a distant town. “Stay away from the edge.”

“Where is the edge?” Bilbo hedged around. It seemed rather unsafe.

“I’m not sure. Just… stay here.” Thorin pulled him and anchored him against his chest.

Bilbo’s first thought was that Thorin was at least a head taller. The second regarded the firm, warm chest that protected him from the cold, sending heat waves to echo and ripple within his body and his heart racing to his loins and back. One hand still held his own while the other was wrapped around his stomach, a gesture that, despite the layers of coats he was wearing, sent every hair follicle on edge.

“Is- is that the Shire?” Bilbo asked, trying to distract himself.

“Yes. I used to come here sometimes, as a kid.”

“You- you did? Why?”

“You’ll see.” Thorin chuckled. His hot breath tickled Bilbo’s ear. “In three, two, one – “

Boom! A bright splash of red clashed with gold and sparkling blue – bam! Then a flash of green and silver lit the valley below. Another explosion, another splash of color, shining over the Shire and dancing with the snow – boom! With a sound like a giant cannon, the bright lights took Bilbo’s breath away. Boom!

“Happy new year,” whispered a voice in his ear, and Bilbo –

Well, Bilbo saw a lot of fireworks in his life.

He turned around, caught the flash of surprise in Thorin’s eyes but ignored it, freed his hands from Thorin’s grasp to cup his cheeks and pulled him down and kissed him.

Thorin groaned against his lips, undone by his lightest touch, then pulled away. “You sure you don’t want to – “

“Oh, hush,” Bilbo muttered breathlessly before returning to Thorin’s lips, like a drowning man reaching for the surface. Thorin responded just as eagerly, pulling him closer with one hand buried in his curls and the other wrapped against his waist, anchoring him.

And boy, Bilbo needed to be anchored. He pushed himself up, fingers in Thorin’s hair and thumb caressing Thorin’s ear and lips sucking, teeth nibbling those oh so perfect lips. He could taste Thorin’s rushed, aching need in his breath and his fingers and pulled him closer, closer, to tell him that it’s okay. It’s okay to want. It’s okay to want him. Heck, he can have him. Thorin’s finger grazed his ear and elicited a soft moan from Bilbo’s preoccupied lips that clashed against Thorin’s mouth.

He was so gentle, almost frightened, shifting between daring and possessive – assertive tongue seeking purchase and teeth biting until his mind is nothing but _Thorin_ \- to exhale raggedly against Bilbo’s mouth, lips parted in pure surrender, fingers suddenly meek and obedient.

Bilbo’s heart beat to the sound of the fireworks as he dared to tease Thorin’s lips with a lick of his tongue. Thorin opened his mouth to invite him in, and his grip on Bilbo’s waist tightened, hardened, enticing Bilbo to tiptoe so he could catch all of Thorin’s soft groans with the tip of his tongue.

The snow seeping through his socks was a less pleasant experience, however.

“Hey,” he mumbled against Thorin’s lips, stopping to plant a soft kiss, “think we can,” he couldn’t resist those lips, now could he? “continue this,” now Thorin was the guilty one and interrupted Bilbo’s failed attempt at stringing a question to melt Bilbo to his core, “at your place?”

It was quiet, oddly enough. Apparently, the fireworks stopped blasting a while ago, and it was officially the new year. Last year ended and the new year began with a kiss he shall remember for the next years to come.

Thorin may have nodded, it was hard to tell in the moonlight, and with a ragged sigh, he separated himself from Bilbo. There was something quite endearing about the nervous uncertainty that stiffed his features.

Bilbo took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Thorin straightened, every inch a soldier, and led him to his not-so-fancy-my-butt stone cottage.

Bilbo could feel the pulse racing in the warm limb. He huffed when Thorin hid both hands in his coat but squeezed the hand once again in reassurance. When they entered the street again, and the soft lamp light allowed Bilbo to finally see in color, he could see Thorin’s ears were quite red, but he could not tell if it was caused by the cold or him. He preferred the second option, thank you.

So they reached Thorin’s house, and Thorin started lighting all the lights and the heater and the fireplace – all in the same order as last time. Bilbo, meanwhile, removed the large coat and his shoes and socks – nothing was worse than the sensation of cold feet, in his opinion. He smiled when Thorin returned, flustered, holding two glasses of wine and not quite sure what to do with himself.

Bilbo smiled and made room for him on the sofa.

Thorin sat, rigid and tense and most likely uncomfortable.

Bilbo blamed the sofa for his discomfort, but less heartily than he would have liked.

“So,” he said conversationally, wincing when Thorin all but choked on his wine. “Are you, ehrm, all… right?”

“Yes.” The word fell between them, large and heavy and undecipherable.

“What…?” Bilbo waved his hand, trying to encompass all he meant in a gesture. He sipped from his glass. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Me?” Thorin turned to look at him, uncertainty clashing with want with such violence Bilbo found it painful to watch.

“Yes, well, I can’t… shouldn’t presume that, ehrm, considering, well, considering. Army and… and the environment that you, err… I shouldn’t presume that you… you know what you want. Or that I know what you want. Or – how, how much you know, of… this.”

It took Thorin a moment to decipher what he was trying to say.

Bilbo did not blame him.

“I want you to stay.”

“Err, yes, we agreed on that. Earl-earlier. What I meant – “

“With me.”

“Yes, that was- oh. Oh. Right, yes. You… are you sure?”

Thorin took a moment to stare into his eyes as if he knew what effect his blue, blue eyes had on Bilbo. Maybe he did. “Yes.”

Was it getting warmer or was it just the blood rushing everywhere but Bilbo’s head? Well, no need to overthink that. Bilbo finished his wine and then pried Thorin’s empty glass from his hand. He put both on the table and turned to face Thorin, who looked at him, once again, like something he had never seen before.

 _Slowly_ , Bilbo reminded himself, rose and straddled Thorin’s hips.

The man’s breath caught in his throat as he choked. Maybe he should’ve tried _slower._

“All right?”

Thorin did not answer that question. His eyes burned as his hand tangled in Bilbo’s curls, pulling him against a hungry mouth eager to claim Bilbo as his own.

And Bilbo hurried to comply, hands in Thorin’s hair, cupping his cheeks and sharp cheekbones, pulling their bodies flush together –

Which was impossible, considering all the coats that stood between them.

Bilbo, even practical, removed his own lumpy jacket first. No need for that one anymore. Then he unbuttoned his vest, Thorin’s fingers in his hair ever so distracting, and threw it on the floor. He did pause for a moment to think about how wrinkled – Thorin’s finger grazed the tip of his ear and Bilbo sighed, head falling back.

What was he thinking about, again?

Thorin discovered his almost state of undress and kissed his neck, a soft touch of his lips that grew bolder and bolder with each muted sigh hissed against Bilbo’s teeth. Thorin kissed the top of his collarbones and sucked gently, teeth just grazing the skin, and Bilbo pulled him closer, just closer.

Then his hands pulled on Thorin’s wool coat, and Thorin complied, shrugging out of the thick coat with ease, but when Bilbo’s fingers explored the hem of his sweater, Thorin froze.

Bilbo frowned at the lips that ceased to indulge him. His hands traveled up the planes of Thorin’s heaving chest and stopped at his cheeks. “Hey,” he whispered. He trailed soft kisses on Thorin’s jaw, cheeks bone, forehead. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” Thorin’s voice was harsh, all resolution and brass courage, the same as one might expect from a commander shouting, ‘charge!’.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed his nose with Thorin’s. “Well, I am. At some point. Maybe tomorrow – what I meant,” he declared, kissing Thorin’s nose and smiling when the man chuckled, “is that I can – we can wait. I’d rather wait.”

“I have… experience,” Thorin protested. Was that a pout?

Bilbo nodded indulgingly, still stroking his hair as if he were a giant-sized child. “Well, that’s good to know – was it a good experience?”

Thorin seemed somewhat distracted. Maybe stroking his hair was a good idea. “I… wouldn’t know.”  When Bilbo pushed up to look at him, eyes wide and horrified, he added, “I was drunk.”

Bilbo didn’t think it improved the situation much but decided that digging deeper tonight was a bad idea. Asking Thorin what he wanted confused him, and taking the lead discomfited him, but letting Thorin take the lead would mean they’d end up snuggled on the sofa with a hard on.

Bilbo decided on a compromise. Thorin was a soldier. Soldiers followed commands. Ergo – “Thorin, take off my shirt.”

Boy if it weren’t his third glass of wine tonight he would never have managed to say that with a straight face, no sir, but Thorin did not question the request. His fingers, nervous and willing, undid button after button almost reverently. And when Bilbo tilted his face up and kissed him, so gently, so softly, Thorin pushed himself into the kiss and anchored Bilbo against him, burning his lips with tempered desire.

_Just take the bloody shirt off already._

But when Thorin finished with the buttons he froze, hands touching, then resting on, then caressing Bilbo’s thighs, traveling up and down, fingers digging into his burning flesh. He did not dare to touch him, skin to skin.

“Take off my shirt,” Bilbo breathed his order into Thorin’s ear.

And Thorin did. He gripped the shirt and removed it, groaning when his fingers touched Bilbo’s exposed chest. Bilbo intertwined his fingers with Thorin’s and guided him, allowing him to feel his chest, soft and warm, down to his ribs and then up again. He allowed Thorin to explore on his own, which the man did tentatively, carefully, then willingly, sliding to caress Bilbo’s bare back and pull him closer to him.

“Can I take off your sweater?” he asked, deserting Thorin’s lips to plant reassuring kisses on his neck. Oh, and that was an attractive neck – hard and sculpted, pulse racing at every vein, holding every gasp of air –

Thorin, very unceremoniously, removed his sweater. He began to undo his tie with impatient fingers –

Bilbo kissed his lips. Slowly, the man softened against him, all rigidness except one gone. “May I?” he mumbled.

Thorin grumbled something that sounded a lot like yes before locking his lips with Bilbo’s, his tongue demanding every last bit of Bilbo’s attention, so it may have taken him longer than necessary to undo the tie. Then, so slowly, his fingers undid every button (did the shirt really need all of them? Seriously, how many buttons do they expect a man to manage?). He tugged the shirt off – Thorin did the rest and, oh, that was a beautiful chest. Do all soldiers -?

Bilbo didn’t finish that thought. All of his words for naught, the first thing he did was kiss Thorin’s pectoral. Then the second one. He explored the heaving chest, fingers follow flesh and lips trailing fingers. He kissed Thorin’s shoulder – broad, lovely thing, hardening underneath his fingers – then down to the collarbones – then down…

Thorin’s breath hitched, so Bilbo returned to those parted lips and blue, blue eyes gleaming with desire. “Okay?” he breathed.

Thorin nodded weakly. His head fell back when Bilbo returned his attention to Thorin’s chest. He could spend days staring at that chest. He could dare – he did dare to take one nipple in his mouth.

Thorin shivered. His hand jolted to tangle in Bilbo’s hair and pull, then relax and ease and guide him back to his chest. Bilbo licked the hardened nipple, sucked gently, then allowed his teeth to graze the tender flesh.

Thorin’s groan was audible. He shifted slightly, almost in discomfort, and hissed a sigh when the bulk in his pants encountered the best possible resistance.

Bilbo, still sucking Thorin’s nipple, shifted up, then down, then up again, grinding his still clothed erection against Thorin’s. Thorin’s hands rested on his waist, nails sinking into his flesh and fingers guiding his progress and Bilbo suddenly forgot how to breathe. He looked up, almost bewildered as his hands traveled up Thorin’s chest to tangle in his hair and pull him down for a kiss.

Bilbo’s gasps, hissed against Thorin’s demanding lips, urged him to increase his pace. He allowed his fingers to roam the expense of Thorin’s chest, caressing the black curls with tender fingers. The muscles tensed and rippled in response, then softened, and Bilbo allowed himself to apply more pressure, nails grazing the sensitive skin. He followed the trail of curls, reaching the rim of the jeans.

“Can I?” he half asked half gasped against Thorin’s lips. “I can st- we can stop. We can stop.”

Thorin opened his eyes to look at him. Those bright, blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and pink, gleaming lips of the unraveled man before him were almost enough to send him over the edge. But it didn’t. He waited.

Thorin leaned forward and kissed him, lips gentle but confident enough to reassure Bilbo he can carry on. The shaky breath at the end of the kiss told him how far.

The leather sofa creaking in protest but Bilbo ignored it. He kissed and licked Thorin’s chest, the feeling of the coarse curls and firm muscle electrifying against his lips, and slowly lowered himself to kneel before Thorin.

The man almost choked on his groan but did not protest.

Bilbo undid the button. He slowly unzipped the jeans. He waited for any word of protest.

None came. Thorin breathed heavily, head laid back against the hard leather, but when he looked down to see why Bilbo stopped, there was no fear or uncertainty in his eyes.

Bilbo touched him. He pushed the jeans down to feel better the hard mass barely contained by the tightened fabric, then moved his hand down, fingers tracing all the way to the bottom of the shaft. He shifted closer, parted Thorin’s thighs, and pulled down the boxers and the jeans. He took the erect cock in his hand and kissed it.

Thorin almost stopped breathing.

Bilbo kissed the tip, almost experimenting, then trailed kisses up and down the shaft, feeling the heat and the pleasure pulsing in his hand. His fingers trailed down to gently massage the bottom, and his tongue soon followed, wetting the cock from the bottom to the top. He then returned to the tip of the shaft. He kissed the top, then swirled his tongue, earning another strangled groan from Thorin’s lips. Holding the shaft gently, he parted his lips as wide as he could and took him in his mouth.

Thorin’s hand rose instinctively to tangle in Bilbo’s hair once more as Bilbo took more and more of him in his mouth, sliding him in as much as he could, then sliding back. It has been so long for him – he nearly gagged – but the whimpered pant hardened his resolve, and he repeated the gesture, fingers caressing and rubbing the rest of the shaft and the bottom, marking each of Thorin’s sighs as his. His. His.

Bilbo’s other hand travels down to undo his zipper and ease the aching pleasure building in his abdomen. Thorin’s meek whimpers and demanding growls serve as more than enough, for now.

The rhythmic movement of his lips, tongue, and fist increased in pace slowly, almost gingerly. Bilbo wanted Thorin to know he was there with him, for him, the whole time. Any twitch of Thorin’s hand or a jerk of the knee was all he needed to know his stroking was wanted… welcomed.

And then Thorin muttered something, choked a word Bilbo did not know, and then, “Bilbo… Bilbo…”

Hearing his name shattered through him, like a jolt of electricity that struck the dam and flooded him with pleasure. The pressure of his hand intensified as he moaned and Thorin, fingers tightening their hold on Bilbo’s curls and pulling him closer, becomes undone with a growl.

A sigh settled over Bilbo. He licked Thorin’s shaft clean and then, even though he could hardly manage it, pushed up to stumble into Thorin’s lap and panting chest and kiss him.

A sloppy kiss that probably didn’t taste the best, but… Thorin’s hands welcomed him. His lips welcomed him. His arms anchored him against him, and the comfort of the touch and the aftershock of his finish made him feel perfectly safe. Content. 

“You okay?” he murmured against Thorin’s lips, not sure why, but knew he had to ask.

“More than okay. You…?”

Bilbo felt like he was asked something, but he wasn’t quite sure what exactly. “I was thinking bed,” he mumbled, face buried in the crook of Thorin’s neck. What a lovely spot. He should pitch a tent there one day. It will be his spot, and he shall name it spotty.

“…Bilbo?”

A gentle nudge dismissed his perfectly pleasant daydream of oak trees. Oak trees? Bilbo stirred. “Right. Yes. You said something?”

“You said bed.”

“Did I? I concur, then. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Can I…?”

Bilbo looked up. Thorin’s eyes looked almost hooded again, and he couldn’t have that, now could he? Nor could he really understand him, considering his state of drowsiness. He kissed Thorin’s cheek. “I drove a lot today. I drank three glasses of wine. I am tired.” He tried to think of more reasons, then gave up and kissed Thorin’s lips instead. He rose unsteadily, then lifted his boxers and kicked off his jeans. “’s cold,” he muttered.

Thorin rose. He took his elbow and guided him to the bedroom, which was almost as stark as the rest of the cottage, and led him to the bed. Giant thing with silken, dark blue sheets and something that looked like an incredibly fluffy blanket.

Who cares. He’ll figure it out in the morning.

He tumbled into the hard mattress, groaned slightly, then fought with the blankets until he felt sufficiently covered. His eyes closed all on their own, at this point.

Something was missing, however.

Bilbo lifted his head – a herculean task at his state – and muttered, “You coming?”

Thorin didn’t need another invitation. He removed his jeans and dived under the covers.

Bilbo waited, but no arm nor finger dared to cross the remaining five inches and touch him. He turned around.

Thorin looked at him, eyes desperately trying to mask yearning with a tired gloss.

Bilbo was too tired to indulge any of that. He shifted entirely till he was close enough to rest his head on Thorin’s shoulder and place his hand on Thorin’s chest. Hmm. That was the right kind of warm.

Thorin shifted so Bilbo could lean more comfortably against him. His other hand rose to gently caress Bilbo’s curls.

“G’Night,” Bilbo may have whispered. He didn’t remember. All he could focus on was Thorin’s scent, earthy and rich and spicy and warm. So warm. He cuddled closer and tangled their legs together.

“Good night, Bilbo.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!

Hmm. Nope. Too early. Back to sleep.

A puff of hot breath against the tip of his ear seemed to agree with him. It was far too early – and too cold – to get out of bed. And why’d he want to get out of bed? Absolutely no reason at all, thank you.

Something touched his forehead.

Bilbo tried to grumble something about the fact that he’s asleep, so Frodo should direct all of his questions to his parents, but what came out sounded more like, “M’sleep. Not now.”

“You’re very talkative for a sleeping person.”

Something touched his forehead again. Soft and slightly squishy. Hot air stirred his sleepy locks. Hmm. It was warm, on that side of the bed. Bilbo shifted closer. Something warm and smooth against his fingertips, but stiff and hairy against his cheek. Just right.

Not Frodo.

Bilbo blinked awake. It took his eyes a moment to focus on the chest and muscle that made up his pillow. It took him even longer to register the arms securing him close to the furnace that took the other half of the bed, and longer still to look up and find those blue, blue eyes looking at him.

Those thin lips teasing him with a sluggish smile.

Bilbo was too drowsy to notice his cheeks heating up or to fight the truly pleased smile that toyed with his sleepy features. “Hey.”

Thorin bowed down his head to nose at Bilbo’s forehead. So that was the sensation from before.

“Good morning,” he mumbled, voice raspy and thick still.

Bilbo could spend the rest of his days listening o that voice. “Good… is it? Morning?”

“It’s light outside.”

“Could be… other lights.” Bilbo closed his eyes and shifted closer still. Thorin made for a very comfortable sleeping partner. The pillow shook beneath him, disturbing his slumber. “Too early,” he protested, pinching his side.

He could hear Thorin’s smile through his voice. “Early?”

“Cold.” Bilbo could have sworn he kicked a cat off the bed, but was too sleepy to care.

“It’s snowing.”

“Better reason to sleep in.”

“It’s nine.”

“Point?” Bilbo purred slightly when a hand brushed his unruly curls. Soft lips caressed his forehead in a gentle, yet determined kiss. He sighed, hand tracing Thorin’s side absentmindedly, then opened his eyes. “Fine.”

The rewarding smile was all the reason he needed, really.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Hmm.” He pushed himself up, frowning when Thorin’s arms resisted. He looked up, taking in the uncertainty that he wanted to uproot from the core, leaned in, and kissed those soft, parted lips. “Perfect.”

He leaned on his elbows, fingers teasing Thorin’s short hair, and the light that sparkled behind Thorin’s ever stormy eyes enticed him to lean again for another short, yet lovely kiss. “How’re you feeling?”

“Feeling?” Thorin frowned at him, then once again closed his eyes and surrendered to Bilbo’s exploring fingers.

“After yesterday.” A worm of worry ate its way through his thoughts, but Bilbo resisted it. He had to know, however, how was the experience for Thorin. Had to know there were no regrets.

Thorin smiled lazily, almost mischievously. “I’d like to repay the favor, sometime.” His hands settled on Bilbo’s waist, fingers teasing the naked skin.

Thorin’s smiles had an infectious quality. Bilbo was in no hurry to find an antidote.

“No rush,” he mumbled, leaning in, taking in Thorin’s smile and breathing in the scent of warmth and earthy musk –

Someone’s stomach grumbled. It may have been Bilbo’s.

“Breakfast?”

Thorin winced but soldiered on. “I have beans and bread… we can make a toast.”

“Toast,” Bilbo stated blankly.

“And… and coffee. And – “

“Don’t say wine.”

Thorin clamped his mouth shut. His eyes darted away, and his fingers fell to rest on the hard mattress. “I am… not often home. Restocking is often…” he paused, trying to think of the right word, “inconvenient.”

 _Fool of a Took._ “Where… where do you usually get breakfast?” Bilbo asked, tone light and less judgmental than before. He bowed his head and rubbed his nose with Thorin’s, smiling softly when he noted that crooked, half of a smile returning to grace Thorin’s lips.

“My sister’s. Sometimes I just skip.”

“Hmm. Well, nothing wrong with a second breakfast.” Bilbo’s smile widened when Thorin knitted his brows in confusion. “One at your sister’s, then one at my place. It’s a wonderful concept.”

Thorin’s hands returned to explore Bilbo’s waist. “Your place?”

“Second breakfast.”

“Ah.” He smiled briefly, then frowned again. “When we get there, it will be early afternoon.”

“Not at the speed I drive.” Bilbo chuckled. “More like early evening.”

But he couldn’t care less about times of day when Thorin looked at him, eyes so blue and tender, and he knew he could never get enough of that color, of Thorin’s eyes looking at him like he… like he meant something. Bilbo lowered his head and kissed him.

A soft gasp parted his lips, a sigh almost too weak to catch, then lips settled on lips once more. Bilbo lifted himself to straddle Thorin’s hips and buried his fingers in Thorin’s hair, holding, caressing, soothing. He bit Thorin’s lower lips gently, then caught it between his lips and sucked, eliciting a choked gasp from Thorin’s throat, before returning to claim both lips. Thorin’s hands traveled up Bilbo’s back, then returned to settle on his waist, fingers traveling lower, lower…

A knock on the door.

Bilbo hated knocks on doors, particularly on doors he hid behind, especially when he was busy. And he was busy.

Thorin stiffened underneath him, but not in the way he would have liked. “Bilbo…” he managed to mumble, voice strained.

Bilbo sighed. “Do you have to?”

Thorin chuckled. “They know I’m home.”

“Tell ‘em you’re sleeping,” Bilbo protested. He tempered his words with short, fleeting kisses.

Thorin groaned, but while he willingly accepted Bilbo’s attempts at seduction, he did not take him up on his offer. “They know I’m awake. Should’ve been up at seven.”

“Who,” kiss, “is,” kiss, “They? And,” another kiss, “why,” kiss, “seven?”

“Cuz I’m,” Thorin returned his kiss, “always up,” kiss, “at – Bilbo, let me fi-” kiss, “seven.” He looked slightly breathless even as his eyes flickered to focus on Bilbo’s lips.

Another knock.

“Probably Dwalin,” Thorin muttered. “And Balin.”

Bilbo tilted his head, attempting to analyze the knocks. “Yes? How’d - how’d you know?”

Thorin lifted himself up and planted one, final kiss on Bilbo’s cheek. “Only Dwalin knocks that hard. And he didn’t enter through the backdoor yet, so Balin is probably…”

“Holding him down?” Bilbo completed that thought for him, trying to imagine Dwalin with a leash on. He smiled, then sighed dramatically. “Fine. But you have to make it up to me.”

Thorin’s smile was stunning. “Deal.”

Bilbo released him. He rolled to his side and shivered, then looked down. “So that was the cat.”

Thorin got up and stretched. He didn’t seem to mind the cold temperature. “Cat?”

Bilbo picked up the fluffy blanket from the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders. “I thought it was a cat.” He smiled and turned around to face… oh, Thorin’s bare chest in bright daylight. Thorin’s bare arms in the daylight. Dear God. “Yesterday. I. I, err, kicked it, I think? Why do you – you don’t seem like a blanket – fluffy blanket. Man. Fluffy blanket man.” Well, at least his cheeks felt hot, even if his fingers were frozen.

Thorin frowned, smiling uncertainly. “My sister gave it to me. A hug from afar, or something. Are you all right?”

He touched that chest. He kissed that chest. He caressed it in the fire’s light. He… “Erm, did you say something?”

Thorin frowned, then realization dawned on his face. Bilbo could easily spot it because the man’s face bloomed red. Thorin scratched his nose, looking away, and Bilbo knew he had to say something, anything –

Saved by a knock.

“You might want to – “

“- clothes, right.”

Bilbo waddled to the living room, fished his clothes from the pile and mourned the state of his vest. Thorin followed, dressed in jeans, a sweater, and a dress shirt, but no tie this time. Good God, did the man understand the definition of casual? Then Thorin offered him an embarrassed smile, and Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.

Thorin squared his shoulders and marched to the door. He turned the key and opened it.

Bilbo held his breath

“Took you damn time!” barked Dwalin. “Leaving us out to freeze. I’ll remember that. Bastard. You-“

“Dwalin was a bit worried, that’s all,” Balin intervened. “Good morning, Bilbo!”

“Good morning,” Bilbo managed.

“Acorn!” Dwalin greeted. “Still alive, I see!” he walked past Thorin and clasped his shoulder. “Thought you froze over, like that car of yours.”

“My - my car?” Bilbo stuttered, massaging his shoulder. “And my name is Bilbo, not-“

Dwalin barked a laugh. “I know, lad.” He leaned over and winked at him. “Caught him fiddling more than once with that necklace you gave him. Thought I didn’t notice, didn’t you?” He elbowed Thorin, whose ears flushed red.

“Now, now, leave the boys alone,” Balin reprimanded him, smiling serenely. “And don’t take all the credit. I figured it was a gift from the mysterious Shire man.”

“Myst – mysterious Shire man?!” Bilbo squeaked, scandalized.

The two men didn’t seem to have the decency to apologize. Thorin, on the other hand, appeared to be unable to decide if to be embarrassed or glare as Dwalin to death.

“Fixed your car,” Dwalin nodded at Bilbo, then turned to Thorin. “Boys were worried when ya didn’t show up. Dis made you an extra tray of sufganiyot, though. Guess she’s happy, eh?”

Bilbo didn’t care for deep fried goods. For the moment. “M-my car?” he asked again.

Dwalin smiled at him, ignoring Balin’s muffled chuckle and Thorin’s still red ears. “Half dead, that box of metal. How’d you make it up here, only God knows. Got it fixed, placed snow chains and all that.” He beamed with pride.

Balin rolled his eyes. “Nori fixed the car. You towed it.”

Dwalin grumbled under his breath, “A thief, that guy. I could’ve fixed it.”

Thorin raised his eyes to star at his friend, a piercing glare that Dwalin didn’t seem to mind in the least.

Balin waved his hand. “Don’t worry, Dwalin didn’t touch the car.”

“I know how to fix a car!” the offended man objected, pulling himself to his full, quite terrifying height.

Bilbo may or may not have shifted closer to Thorin.

Thorin sighed, then looked down to cock a brow at him. Bilbo ignored the amused smile that threatened to overthrow Thorin’s frown. He did lean into the hand that landed on the small of his back.

Balin’s demeanor changed. The eyes that seemed so infinitely kind before hardened with cold ire. “Yes, like that time you decided to fix that motorcycle.”

Dwalin deflated slightly. “It was the first-“

“And the last.”

Dwalin persisted, “-first time I tried to fix it. Cars I know better.”

“Let’s not put it to the test.” Balin, Bilbo discovered, could be quite intimidating in his own right.

A knock on the door. Bilbo almost sighed in relief, then noticed the lack of effect the interruption had on the two men. He sent a questioning look to Thorin, who squeezed his shoulder and walked to open the door.

“Thorin, lad!” A large man with blazing red hair and an impressive mustache marched into the cottage. He clasped Thorin’s back and laughed when he saw Balin and Dwalin. “The bulls are at it again, eh? Who’s this?” His eyes focused on Bilbo.

“Bilbo Baggins, a… a pleasure,” Bilbo said, offering his hand for a shake.

The man’s grip was painfully strong. “Gloin. You a… relative?” he seemed positively puzzled.

“Friend,” Thorin quickly supplied. “News?”

“Aye.” The man’s eyes left Bilbo and focused on Thorin. “My wife received a call to summon all three of you. Sorry, fellas. They need you early this year.”

Dwalin scowled at Balin. “Thought you were on leave?”

“It’s a new year, brother.” Balin sighed. “When?”

Gloin looked at his watch. “Now, I think. I came as soon as I could, but the snow interfered with the phone lines, so we received the call late. I’ll drop you off, as usual.”

Thorin nodded, then marched to his room without sending a glance in Bilbo’s direction.

Dwalin clasped Gloin’s shoulder, nodded in thanks, and focused on Balin. “See you in ten,” he said and left after Balin nodded in confirmation. Was nodding a secret code amongst them?

Bilbo tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the two were siblings.

Balin offered Bilbo half a smile. “I’m sorry lad. You can still visit Dis, I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to host you.”

Bilbo responding smile was an uneasy grimace. “Right. When, do you know when would… err, if, most likely, you will return?” he stumbled. Thorin said he could not ask a soldier that, but an estimation, of any sort, any reassurance that Thorin will return and…

Balin’s smile softened. “Dis used to say that having a husband in the army is similar to leading two separate lives. I do not know, lad.”

Bilbo’s smile was a weak one. “Dis’ husband is also in the army?”

“Was, fell in Malaya,” Gloin grumbled. “You a close friend?”

Bilbo felt sick, as if a set of icy pliers decided to give his heart a testing squeeze. “In… in a way.”

Gloin cocked a brow at him.

Before anyone could say anything, Thorin marched into the room, dressed in uniform and carrying his bag. He had a revolver tucked into his belt. He nodded to Gloin but still didn’t look at Bilbo.

“Let’s go, shall we?” Gloin slapped his watch. The men followed him outside, Bilbo queasily so, and waited for Thorin to lock his door. Bilbo looked at his car, waiting for him on the road, and knew he should have thanked the brothers for their effort. He could not find his voice to do so. He could not find his voice at all.

Balin, apparently, was more sympathetic to his troubles. “I need to go and change as well. Gloin, do you think you could help me carry my bag? I am not as young as I used to be.”

“Not that old, though.” Gloin furrowed his brow.

“Come now, what is some heavy lifting for a banker? With all the bags of gold you weigh and carry all day long?”

“Nobody brings in gold to a bank anymore, old man,” protested Gloin, but followed him all the same. “I don’t have time to exercise any… the wife complains…”

“You… lifting Gimli? I…”

“… my back…”

The voices faded.

Bilbo waited for Thorin to say something. He waited as Thorin slowed his pace to match his and yet continued to stare resolutely ahead. He waited.

He couldn’t wait forever. “So anytime someone walks in you’re going to give me the cold shoulder? Or-“

“Bilbo-“

“No, I think I-“

“Bilbo.” A hand on his shoulders stopped him and his words.

Bilbo looked up. He did not hide the hurt that hollered within his heart.

Thorin’s eyes were so tender. “No. It wasn’t intentional. It’s… the army. Army mindset. I have to be focused and detached. I’m sorry.” He exhaled, shrouding himself in a cloud. “I’m not used to… to this. I was… surprised.”

“You didn’t even look at me.”

Thorin bowed his head. “I didn’t want to see if you were… disappointed. By me.”

Bilbo swallowed. “That you were ignoring me? Yes, yes, I am disappointed – “

“No! I wasn’t – I didn’t mean to ignore you,” Thorin growled, frustrated, “I didn’t know what to do. What to call… you. Us. If… if there’s even a ‘we,' or… or whatever the hell is happening. I promised I’d spend time with you, and then I am called away. I…” Thorin looked away, searching for the right words. “I want you, wanted you to stay, but I don’t have time to give you.” Thorin waited, out of breath. Bilbo still lookd away. “I am afraid you will leave me.”

Bilbo looked down. It was hard for him to ignore the unveiled pain in Thorin’s voice. It was harder to respond.

“Bilbo, I’m leaving now. Please… please look at me.”

It was difficult to swallow. He gave up, at some point. “Thorin, you must understand - I can wait, wait for you to… come to terms with who you are. It’s never easy. Every time someone asks, I feel like I’m coming out all over again. I believe in you, so I can wait. So _we_ can wait until you are ready. But you can’t… I can’t wait forever to… for you to recognize me, and…”

And as his voice died, Thorin’s fingers curled underneath his chin, tilting his head, and Thorin bowed down his head and kissed him. He kissed him. He initiated the kiss – in broad daylight, outside – and he didn’t let him go. Thorin’s hands held his cheeks, and his lips claimed his so tenderly, so affectionately, like he meant something to him. Like a promise.

Bilbo liked that promise. He returned it, lips caressing lips and hands snaking up Thorin’s chest to grip the collar of his coat and pull him closer. He didn’t want to let him go. He didn’t want the army to take him somewhere cold and dangerous and away from the Shire. Away from him.

His hands shifted up to lock behind Thorin’s neck and pull him closer almost desperately. His lips parted before Thorin’s desperately. He should keep his emotions in check.

Bilbo kissed him to convince him to stay. Thorin kissed him to say goodbye.

Thorin broke the kiss, yet didn’t pull away. “I have to go.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. He released Thorin’s neck and patted the collar down. “Oh, dear me. Yes, I know.” He smiled. Or grimaced. Something in between.

Thorin looked at him, an uncertain smile toying with his lips. “I will return.”

“Oh, of – of course, I didn’t assume – think – otherwise.” Fantastic sentence. Bilbo shifted in discomfort. “Do you… know, more or less, about when…?”

Thorin sighed against his forehead. “About three months, maybe… maybe more. I will come to see you, first thing.”

Bilbo almost melted. He cleared his throat, pulling himself together. “I’ll… I’ll wait.”

“I have to go. Can you make it down the mountain? I can ask – “

“No, it’s fine. Take care of… of yourself. Come back.” He looked up, up into those blue eyes that were meant to become the bane of his existence the moment he first saw them.

Thorin’s smile was gentle, but Bilbo could see the storm freezing the softness within the icy blue. “I will. I promise.”

One final, short and fleeting kiss, and Thorin was gone. He caressed Bilbo’s cheek one last time and marched toward the end of the street to join Balin and Dwalin and Gloin and leave. Leave him.

_You said soldiers can’t make that promise. You said that._

Bilbo squared his shoulders and walked to his car. He unlocked the door and turned the key. The car, surprisingly enough, came to life within seconds, vibrating comfortably underneath Bilbo’s feet.

Life without Thorin starts now.

* * *

 

So… a bookshop. A shop that sells books. He owns one, right?

Bilbo sat in his chair, reading his book and not counting the days. It hasn’t been a month since he last saw Thorin. Or maybe it has? He did not know. At all.

Business was booming, which was usual for a new year. Self-help books, recipes, gardening, and some self-brewing for the lucky folk whose wives finally surrendered. Bilbo smiled and nodded to each customer and looked for blue eyes. He helped some of the less decisive shoppers pick one or two reading materials and smiled at every stiff, formal gesture directed his way. Any fabric dyed army green had his heart racing, then faltering, then sinking.

Another day ending with Bilbo curled in his armchair, waiting and dreaming.

Another week came and went. Bilbo decorated his bookshop with hearts and pink ribbons and forced a plastic smile to his face. He traded his favorite tea for hot chocolate and waited for his days to sweeten, as well.

Waiting is complicated. He considered buying a telephone for his home. The one he had in his shop remained silent, but it wasn’t like he gave Thorin his number. _Do they use telephones in the army?_

Another week flew by. Bilbo smiled at love-struck teens fidgeting with potential gifts and weary adults reading reviews. They bought their gifts without opening the covers. Bilbo nodded and smiled.

He waited to go to bed and dream of warm arms and groggy, blue eyes…

Business was weaker on Wednesday, which was also normal. Bilbo closed early and walked home. The walk was nice. Closing his door and locking the world outside was even nicer.

Actually, he was quite eager to try the new red velvet brownie recipe Prim sent him. Baking always put his mind at ease, and baking sweets was the best remedy for an aching heart.

He baked. He ate. He smiled because the brownies were delicious. It was almost romantic.

“Happy valentine’s,” he muttered to himself.

A knock on his door.

Bilbo ate another brownie in defiance. Let them knock. He wasn’t about to open his shop. No, he needed a holiday too, mind you. He –

Another knock.

Bilbo rose with a sigh. He will just have to tell them to go away and – _but what if it’s –_ Bilbo pushed away that thought. He couldn’t live in waiting. Maybe he should drive up the mountain and ask Dis how she did it. Maybe not.

He paused before the door, steadying himself. Not imagining Thorin on the other side.

A louder knock, almost impatient.

Bilbo opened the door. He blinked, failing to register the sight before him. He closed the door.

A moment of silence. Then, gentle rapping, almost hesitant.

Bilbo shook his head, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. He opened the door.

Thorin still stood on the other side, hand poised to knock again.

“He…hello,” he stammered.

Bilbo stared at him blankly.

“I took a night’s leave. I… Bilbo?”

Bilbo may have whimpered.

Thorin waited, posture stiff, but no response came forward.

“I had to – wanted to see you.” Thorin’s eyes searched his almost frantically, then, as if bracing himself for impact, he squared his shoulders and offered him a heart-shaped box of chocolates. “Happy valentine’s day.”

Bilbo looked up at him, lips parted and eyes wide, almost begging to hear… to make sure he heard correctly.

Thorin coughed. “I… I hope that’s fine? Chocolate? I didn’t have time for flowe-“

Bilbo rushed forward, almost stumbled, and wrapped his hands around Thorin’s neck, pulling him down and kissing him. Kissing him, smelling him, _feeling_ _him._

Thorin stumbled, then steadied himself and wrapped a hand around Bilbo’s back, pulling him closer. His lips welcomed Bilbo’s with a rush of hope melting into reality. The need for closeness bled through the kiss, a flavor both could not get enough of.

“Perfect. You’re perfect,” Bilbo breathed against hesitant, parted lips. “You’re perfect.”

Thorin managed a weak, short-lived smile, and Bilbo could not resist – he had to kiss him again. Kiss those lovely lips that spent an outrageous amount of time torturing him at night, kiss them until he could taste nothing else but Thorin, until he could feel nothing else but _Thorin._

“I missed you,” he whispered, breathless, balancing himself on his tiptoes with Thorin’s chest serving as support.

“I can tell.” Thorin smiled. It was a full blown, utterly beautiful smile. Bilbo soaked in the warmth of that smile. “I missed you too.” He bowed down to kiss his forehead. “I have to go tomorrow, but-“

“Stay the night.” The request stumbled, breathless and earnest, from his lips.

Thorin’s smile widened, softened. “I’d love to.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

 In the end, Thorin fell asleep on his sofa.

Bilbo thought it was the sweetest sight he had seen in a long time. Though it may have been his fault – what did he expect would happen after letting a soldier shower and almost finish an entire chicken?

Still, he couldn’t let him spend the night on the sofa. Bilbo sat next to the sleeping man and took his time. Borrowed it. He spent the moments carefully, memorizing the sharp nose, the soft wrinkles, the five o’clock shadow. He collected details like a thief would precious stones. This man, those moments, these memories – they were precious to him. Beyond precious.

Still, one had to consider Thorin was not in his twenties anymore. His back would undoubtedly kill him tomorrow should Bilbo let him spend the night in this position. Bilbo curled next to Thorin and gently kissed his cheek. “Thorin…” he mumbled, nosing at the man’s cheekbone. “Thorin… come to bed. Hey.” He kissed his cheek again and allowed his fingers to explore the spiky hair in soothing, circular motions. “Hey,” he mumbled again.

Thorin’s eyes fluttered open. The drowsy blue lingered in Bilbo’s eyes as an equally drowsy smile spread on the harsh features. Then Thorin took in his surroundings, and the smile withered into a grimace. “Oh, Bilbo, I am so sorry, I can’t believe I – “

“No harm done,” Bilbo reassured him as he leaned his head on Thorin’s chest. “I just didn’t want you to fall asleep on the sofa. Back pains, and… and the rest.” He offered a lazy smile to the hand that stroked his curls. “Come to bed, yes?”

Thorin’s facial expression was a mix of a frown and a yawn. “Terrible Valen-“

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Bilbo admonished him. He used Thorin’s chest as support so he could chastise the man properly, but the guarded hesitation that met his eyes melted all he wanted to say. Of course, let no one say Bilbo was struck speechless – he leaned in and kissed Thorin. Silly Thorin, trying to force himself to give what should only come naturally.

Though he had to admit, Thorin’s fingers sneaking underneath his jumper to burn trails on his skin did make him question his resolve.

He broke the kiss to rub his nose with Thorin’s. “Come to bed like a good boy, and I’ll read you a bedtime story.”

Thorin chuckled, then yawned again. “Hmm,” was his response.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Bilbo took Thorin’s hand and dragged him – well, led him, but still – to the bedroom. Even in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, Thorin looked ridiculously attractive.

Upon seeing the bed, Thorin did not need extra convincing. He kicked his blanket over to Bilbo’s side of the bed but managed to keep his eyes open. Barely.

Bilbo sat next to him, pooling the blankets around him and smiling fondly when Thorin shifted closer, hand spread behind Bilbo’s back, head resting peacefully on his thigh.

Bilbo caressed that short, army hair and began to read, “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit - ”

A sleepy voice mumbled, “What’s a hobbit?”

“Shhh… I’m getting there.” He continued, “Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell - ”

“Sounds like a butthole.”

“Thorin!”

The man was too tired to properly snicker. “Sorry. Yes, continue.”

Bilbo scoffed. “Nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it – shut up, Thorin – to sit down or to eat. It was a Hobbit-hole, and that meant comfort.”

He continued to read, even after Thorin fell asleep. The story was interesting, but he found it hard to focus. Thorin’s features, relaxes and peaceful and free of worries, were beautiful. Eventually, even he gave up on his reading and shifted to snuggle with his surprise Valentine’s date.

It was a good surprise.

* * *

 

A sudden drop in temperature woke him. Bilbo grimaced, not yet fully conscious, and shifted closer to snuggle with… nothing. His eyes snapped open.

He was alone.

Bilbo, shivering, rose and threw a robe over himself as he searched for signs of Thorin. It was not yet dawn, surely even soldiers did not leave before the sun? He waddled downstairs, limbs frozen. No Thorin in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the living-room. His bag was also missing.

A wisp of a smile toyed with Bilbo’s lips. Dating a soldier was like dating a ghost, apparently. “Still worth it,” he muttered to the frost covered window. He shivered and waddled back upstairs – he had at least two more hours of sleep, if he were not mistaken, and he had no intention of skipping them so he could freeze to death.

He shrugged out of his bathrobe when he found a misplaced item on his nightstand. A piece of paper. He smiled lopsidedly and reprimanded his earlier panic. His eyes lingered on the hastily scribbled _Bilbo_ before he opened the note. He had a nice handwriting, almost… posh. Bilbo snickered.

_Had to go. Long journey. Didn’t want to wake you up. Thank you for the story._

Below it, he wrote a number and added, _for emergencies._

No signature.

Bilbo held the note close to his heart and fell asleep. He swallowed the disappointment and dreamed of Thorin’s blue eyes and tired smile.

* * *

 

Bookshops were underestimated, in Bilbo’s opinion.

He sighed, feeling almost heartbroken, as he duct-taped a small note to the front door. The note apologized quite politely and informed Bilbo’s potential shoppers that the bookshop is closed for today.

It felt almost terrifying, writing that note. Bilbo wasn’t sure he was ready to venture yet again to Ered Luin. Maybe he should say he’s sick. Or hide. He could hide. No one said he had to go. And he did not even have a costume –

“Bilbo! Look, Fi, it’s Bilbo!”

“Yes, Kili, I saw – Bilbo! Over here!”

Bilbo sighed. Too late for that. He turned around to face the sleek car that eased to a perfect stop next to him and the two young faces that beamed at him from within. He was not at all surprised to spot Dis, ever so elegant, in the driver’s seat.

“Get in!” she ordered.

Bilbo sighed, braced himself, picked up the three trays of cupcakes he had prepared for the occasion (he still wasn’t certain what the occasion was, actually, but he refused to show up empty handed twice in a row) and entered the car.

“Are those cupcakes?”

“Can I have some?”

“Can I have ALL of them?”

“Ki, you can’t – “

“I can! I’m Robin Hood!”

“And I’m a pirate, so I can more than you!”

“No, you can’t!”

“Boys!” Dis ordered again.

The boys fell silent, then continued to argue (whispering, this time) on how to divide the baked goods between them. Bilbo thought he may have heard the name ‘Dwalin’ whispered in awe mixed with terror.

Dis, he noted, was dressed in a flowing dress made of… gold triangles with eye drawings on them? Her hair was pulled up in a bun, and on her neck, she wore one of the thickest chokers he had ever seen, sparkling with life of its own. Her sleeves were long and golden too. Bilbo had no idea how she managed to drive with sleeves like that.

“You are staring, Bilbo.” She smiled. “Like my costume?”

“C-costume?” Bilbo’s heart sank. So the adults dressed up too. Dang it. Well, he could always claim he dressed up as a… bookshop owner?

“Why, yes. Can you guess who am I?”

Bilbo looked. He looked again. He was almost blinded by the amount of gold. “Err. Gold?”

Dis scoffed.

“A… rich lady? A pyramid? An eye? Illuminati?”

Dis barked a short laugh, then turned to cock an elegant brow at him, eyes sparkling mischievously. Behind him, he could hear Fili and Kili snickering.

“I’m The Woman in Gold,” she boasted. “The painting? Adele Bloch-Bauer?”

Bilbo flushed. “Ah. I… am not too familiar with modern art,” he confessed.

Dis’ smile softened. “Hmm. Painted about eighty years ago. I am not surprised you are unfamiliar with the painting.” She cocked a brow at him again, sensing he was about to protest. “You don’t look like you traveled abroad?”

Bilbo’s flush deepened. “I… I didn’t. Forgive me, but what’s the… the occa-“

“Where’s your costume, Bilbo?” Kili interrupted, trying to climb out of his seat and look at Bilbo’s clothes.

“Kili, sit properly,” Dis reprimanded. When Fili pushed Kili down and tried to peep himself, she added, “You too, Fili.” She then continued to race up the mountain with a speed that had Bilbo clutching his cupcakes almost skittishly. His expression of fright must have caught Dis’ attention, for her smile sharpened, and she nodded his way. “Not used to female drivers, Bilbo?”

Bilbo was too busy absolutely not looking at the abyss to his left. “Not used to driving, err, hmm. Why – why are you all in… costume?”

“Purim!” the boys chimed.

“Poor-him?”

“No, Purim.” Fili exhaled in frustration. “It’s a holiday! We wear costumes and give our friends and family baskets of sweets, and then we get baskets of sweets from them!”

Bilbo still didn’t understand why the holiday was named after a poor person, but decided not to ask. “So… like Halloween?”

Dis shook her head. “Purim isn’t scary or revolving around ghost stories. It’s about – “

“I wanna tell him!” Kili interrupted. He cleared his voice and puffed his little chest. “A long time ago, in a kingdom far far away, there lived a king. He had a funny name. Aha… Aha….”

“Achashverosh,” Fili supplied quickly.

“Yeah.” Kili nodded enthusiastically. “Ahashrosh. He had a wife, but he didn’t like her because she didn’t want to party with him. He killed her!”

“He banished her,” Dis corrected.

Kili rolled his eyes. “Mom! Anyways, he wanted a new queen, so all the women came to a party because he invited them. He liked parties. And then he saw Esther-“

“You need to explain who Esther is,” Fili interrupted.

“She was the new queen!”

Fili sighed with all the childish seriousness he could muster. “Ester was the niece of Mordecai. There were Jews. But the king doesn’t know that.”

“And then Haman – “

“He was the advisor of the king – “

“- wanted to kill all the Jews and Esther convinced him not too. Because she was pretty!”

A beat of silence. Bilbo felt even more confused than he did before. “So… wh-who is the poor… man?”

Dis chuckled. “Not poor, Purim. That means lots. Haman cast lots to decide when to kill the Jews. We wear costumes as part of the merrymaking of the holiday.”

Fili snickered. “And get really drunk. They do!”

“We do,” Dis confirmed. “It’s tradition! Drink till you know no more.”

Bilbo shrank in his seat a little. “Education…al.”

“Ha!” Dis laughed. “What costume should we get him, boys?”

“No, no, no, absolutely no need to – “

“A pirate!” Fili declared.

“No, robin hood!” Kili protested.

“But these are your costumes. Something else.” Dis hummed a merry tune. “I wonder if we could use Thorin’s old costumes from his teens?” When Bilbo scoffed, she explained, “You are short, darling.”

Fili furrowed his forehead, chin in hand as he pondered with the most serious expression Bilbo had ever seen a boy wear. Kili immediately mimicked him.

“What about Mordecai?” Fili suggested. “Everyone dressed at least once as Mordecai, right?”

Bilbo cringed.

Dis smiled. Her smile was an odd mixture of a ferocious grin and a child-like delight. “No… Boys, I have just the thing.”

* * *

Bilbo finished his… glass of wine. Was it the tenth? Maybe third. Fourth. Numbers with ‘th’ in them.

Dwalin and Balin next to him seem to have finished a barrel each already. The men – Balin dressed as a Dutch painter Bilbo already forgot and Dwalin as a Scottish warrior (Bilbo prayed to God he decided to wear underpants) – tried to knock their heads together to prove who had the hardest skull. Dis appeared to be winning her third drinking competition. The younger children were chasing each other and playing in the snow. Thrain, drunk himself and dressed as a king, held a loud, drunk discussion in the yard with… other drunk looking old people.

Bilbo felt rather silly, dressed as… Richard Lionheart. Of course Thorin would dress up as a king. The costume, however, was still too big. The crown was annoying to wear and the mail too uncomfortably tight around his midriff. Still, he shouldn’t complain. His fault for not bringing a costume. That’s what Dis said.

Bilbo sighed, feeling alone and a tad morbid as he imagined himself drowning in a barrel of wine.

A bear was watching him from the main yard.

Bilbo shook his head and rose to fill his glass again. Bears. The two miners… what were their names again? Bofur and Bifur? Snored peacefully next to a pile of still closed wine bottles, surrounded by an alarming number of beer bottles. The beer was entirely gone, and it was… yes. Late afternoon.

Bilbo filled his glass and took another… ear. Or something. The triangular baked… thing was delicious, if oddly named. Bilbo turned around. The bear stood in front of him.

Well, a man dressed as a bear.

Bilbo shrugged and drank his wine. He also threw off his crown – because he could. He could and he would and the bear was pointing. Bear. Pointing.

No. Man dressed bear man. A bear man dressed as a man. Man costumed bear. What?

The bear pointed more rigorously. Bilbo spun on his toes to look behind him and almost tripped. A… door, glass door. Balcony. Something. Bear. _I need coffee, or a bear translator… phone. Bear phone._

A paw landed on his shoulder. The paw grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the balcony.

“Hrm… I protest. Go away, bear. Lemme go, bear-man-s’cold lemme….” Something felt familiar about the bear’s walk. The bear’s height. The realization bounced around his sluggish brain, sinking in and bubbling like heat in his veins.

“Not a vampire… vampire? Supposed ta be a vampire. Not a… man bear. Werebear. Wear-bear.”

The bear stopped. It was bloody cold, damn it. The costume was thin and the mail – heavy. Bilbo reached up and took off the bear’s furry head.

“Ah! There you are.” He smiled at the man hiding underneath the mask. “’ello, m’ster Bear. You show up unes- unexpecete… unexp-ctable-ee. That one.”

Thorin smiled. “You are drunk.”

Bilbo nodded, then stopped when the world started spinning. “Dis’s’s fault. Challenged to a drinking competition. I… I lost.” He toppled into Thorin’s arms and snuggled against the costume. “Soft.”

Thorin’s arms held Bilbo up. “I shall blame her – “

“You’re’n’t drunk?” Thorin was a bear. A bear. All soft and black and covered in hair. Hmm.

Thorin chuckled. “No, I didn’t have the time. I… chose the bear costume to find you. Well, find you without anyone noticing. Dis’ idea. I –“

“No no no no. No. Dis said – someone said you gotta drink. I drink. Drank. Where’s my wine glass? You need a bottle.”

“Bilbo, we could go now and…”

Bilbo made a step in the direction of the mansion, possibly toward the drinks, then noticed a paw, holding his arm. Bilbo quite forgot why he wanted a drink as his eyes trailed the furry arm all the way up to Find Thorin, looking at him. His mind was too hazy to decipher Thorin’s expression, but it knew for sure that any idea involving walking _away_ from Thorin was a bad one indeed.

He smiled and stumbled back to Thorin, hands hugging the bear’s waist. “Hey… You’re’n’t in the army agg-gain. Did you ditch?”

Thorin scoffed, smiling back. “I am not required to use the housing accommodations provided. It’s easier, because I live far away, but I can leave… if I make it back on time. I can – “

“M-don’t care.” Bilbo gripped the bear’s furry shoulders to support his drunk attempt at balancing on his toes and kissed the runaway soldier. Bear. Whatever. He lost his balance the moment his lips touched Thorin’s, but Thorin’s arms were quick to secure him against the bear’s chest. An electrifying jolt shivered through him as his lips, numb from the cold, awoken upon being kissed. A different form of intoxication cleared his mind of all coherent thoughts when Thorin pulled him closer and bit Bilbo’s lower lip.

“Bilbo,” a voice muttered against his lips, “we should go. We shouldn’t – not here.”

“Walking’s complicated,” Bilbo protested, frowning at the lips that hesitated. “I missed you.”

Thorin groaned, a raw sigh that spoke keenly of surrender, and kissed Bilbo. His lips stole Bilbo’s breath and balance and a few other things as he clamored more with his lips and dared to flick out his tongue and lick – then explore – the man who appeared so sparingly in his life, yet took over them like a storm.

Thorin was a storm. A simple touch struck Bilbo like lightning; his heart echoed within his chest like thunder; his emotions howled within his chest like a gust of wind. His fears fogged his heart like an army of clouds as painful memories from the past rained drops of frozen water.

But Thorin was warmth, too. Bilbo felt nothing but warmth when Thorin was around. When Thorin looked at him, touched him, kissed him –

Thorin pulled away – no, tore himself from Bilbo’s lips. He pushed Bilbo away from him.

Bilbo looked up, confused, but Thorin wasn’t looking at him. His wide, too wide eyes fixated on something behind Bilbo. Thorin was as pale as the snow swirling around them. His fingers shook, then coiled into white-knuckled fists.

Bilbo turned around.

Thrain raised his glass of wine in acknowledgment. “Hello again. We met during Hanukkah, didn’t we? Forgive me, I do not remember your name.”

Bilbo felt faint. His lower lips shivered from the coldness in Thrain’s eyes. “B-Bilbo, sir. My name is – “

“Bilbo. Yes, I remember now. I see you have come to share in our merriment again. Purim is a lovely holiday.”

Bilbo did not dare to glance at Thorin. His heart trembled in his chest. “Ah… yes. Yes. I like the cost- costumes. Costumes. Ahrm. Your costume is very… very fitting.”

Thrain didn’t seem to hear Bilbo’s words. His glower tried to skewer Bilbo’s soul. “Lovely holiday. However, Bilbo, you are under my roof. Enjoying my hospitality. I urge you to respect our community’s values. It may seem to you that a holiday that celebrates drinking also encourages promiscuity and sin. It does not.”

Bilbo really wished he were sober. He also wished he could convince his windpipes to work. He could not breathe.

Thrain’s eyes shifted to glare at Thorin. The rage that regarded Bilbo with disdain burned with maddened revulsion. “You – “

“I – I kissed him. I ki- I did that. I… my fault.” Bilbo swallowed the bile and the anger and the cold, choking fear that made him want to puke. Or maybe that was the alcohol. He took a step forward, despite the nausea and the spinning earth and the irregular, painful beating of his heart. “My f-f-fault. I got drunk, still drank – drank more. I have no idea what… why did I – am so sorry. Sorry, for… I will leave. N-now.”

“Yes.” Thrain’s voice was ice. The man drew nearer, terrifying despite the plastic crown on his head. “You will leave now. Take the costume with you and leave. It is said that we are to embrace the sinners, despite their sin, but I will not allow you to taint my son. You are not worthy of his time.”

Bilbo nodded. Or shivered. Maybe both. He tried to walk as straight as he could toward the exit. He couldn’t feel his limbs. His entire body felt numb.

“Understand that you are not welcomed here anymore.”

Bilbo somehow made it to the door. It was, thankfully, open. Was he drowning? He turned around – he had to turn around – to look at Thorin, to…

Thorin was looking at him. He was pleading – his eyes were –

Thorin’s head suddenly snapped to his left. He blinked, then raised a paw to touch a now burning red cheek. He kept his eyes glued to the balcony floor.

“I raised you better than this, this perverted, depraved behavior! I raised you better than this! You are my son, a grown man!” Thrain barked. “Were you a confused child, I may have forgiven it. I had forgiven it. God help me, mistakes happen. We all sin. But this?! This! This is how you pay me? You betrayed me!”

“Father – “

“Be silent! I will hear nothing from you! I don’t care how – you are sick. Sick.”

“Father, please, let me – “ Thorin’s voice broke. Bilbo’s heart broke with it. The eyes that darted up fell, humiliated, to stare at the piling snow.

“This, this entire ordeal with that _Christian_ faggot – did he make you do this? Did he - ”

Thorin raised his eyes. “Leave him out of this, father. He has nothing to do with this.”

“Nothing? He k- he defiled you! He said so himself! He seduced you!”

“Father – “

“It’s… it’s the army. The time away from the army. You need a wife and some time off. And time alone with God. You are drunk. It is… it can be forgiven.” Thrain clasped Thorin’s shoulders. “You should leave the army soon, become a rabbi. Before that, you need a wife. You need to go back to read the book of God. And you need to cut all ties with that… that sick man!”

Bilbo looked down. He should leave. He didn’t want to hear Thorin making that decision, bowing to a man in a king’s costume. It was his fault, anyways. He kissed him. He kissed him in his father’s house on a balcony with a door made of glass. His fault. His fault.

“I… I seduced him, father.”

Well, Bilbo had no doubt in his mind Thorin was brave. Ever. He never doubted his courage. But that wasn’t courage. That was suicide.

Bilbo looked up from his dejected spot by the door, ready to protest, when he saw Thorin looking at him. Looking into him. Oh. _Oh._ His eyes weren’t pleading him to keep his silence – Thorin was asking him to stay, to… not leave him.

Thorin looked down at his father. “This isn’t a mistake, father. I am not drunk. I… I didn’t drink a single drop. We… we kissed each other.”

Thrain took a step back, as if disgusted by Thorin’s words. His fingers twitched, repulsed.

“Father – “

“Don’t!” he snapped. “Do not call me that. You are not my son. I have no sons. My son is dead. You killed him – you killed both of them. Get out of here.”

“Father, please, I – “

“Get out of here! I will hear no more. Get out!”

Something in Bilbo snapped. The lost, hurt look in Thorin’s eyes, his red, burning cheek… something just snapped. “Yes. Yes, we will get out,” Bilbo hissed. He marched forward and grabbed Thorin’s arm. “We are. Both of us. _You_ are not worthy of your son, Thrain. You do not deserve him. Thorin is courageous, loyal, determined, loving – yes, loving – and you hardly know him, if you think he is that weak willed to be influenced or swayed to betray who he is. You do not know your son!”

Thrain turned on him, eyes ablaze with ire scorching enough to burn. “You! You do not get to talk to me about _my son,_ you… family wrecker. You tore this family apart, and I shall not stand to be reprimanded by the likes of you,” he snarled, poison dripping and burning Bilbo within.

Bilbo heard enough. He held Thorin’s arm. He led Thorin out. He was afraid of looking into Thorin’s eyes, fearing what he may find. Fearing he had gone too far, fearing he wrecked more than this family. And Bilbo was so bloody tired of being afraid.

The children came to play inside. The adults were still drunk. No one noticed a headless bear and a crownless king as they passed through. Bilbo, as determined as he was to get out of the mansion, lost his momentum the second they let the doors close behind them.

“Thorin,” he rasped, “Thorin, I am so sorry, I didn’t listen – I should’ve, I… I am so sorry.” He dared to look up. No; it wasn’t about daring. He was afraid of not knowing.

Thorin wasn’t looking at him. He looked at the storm, eyes glazed. He swallowed hard before he answered. “I… share the blame. Let’s, let’s just get out. Go… somewhere. Home, or.” Thorin inhaled sharply through his nose. He rubbed his eyes, trying and failing to string a sentence together. “How’d you get here?”

Bilbo held Thorin’s arm almost desperately, though Thorin did not return the gesture. “Dis. Dis drove me. Us. Me and the boys.”

Thorin nodded mechanically. “I’ll take you down, then leave. I need to return to the base tomorrow.”

Bilbo had to know. He had to know. “Thorin…?” His voice died. He could not ask.

Thorin rubbed his eyes again. He pried Bilbo’s hand from his arm and intertwined his fingers with Bilbo’s instead, then, instead of burying them in his pocket, displayed their held hands in the open.

Bilbo was cold; he preferred the pocket, but did not want to protest.

Thorin led him to his car. He drove down, determined, swallowing hard.

Bilbo looked at him until he could not look anymore. His body was frozen with fear and torn by regret.

Also, Thorin drove as fast as Dis did, if not faster, which had Bilbo feeling queasy throughout the drive. And he was drunk. He was. Everything just bounced around and sank in the sticky walls of his brain, melting into shapeless heaps of blurry despair.

They rode in silence. Bilbo did not know silence could be this disconcerting before today. He felt Thorin closing before his eyes. The Thorin that held his hand in public an hour ago could not endure the sight of him now. When Thorin parked his car in front of Bilbo’s, his hands still gripped the stirring wheel with bruising strength. His jaw, clenched tight, stood in contrast to his adam’s apple, shivering in his throat.

Bilbo placed a tentative hand on Thorin’s. He was not surprised to see the hand immediately withdrawn.

“I need to go, Bilbo,” Thorin muttered. “I… I have to go.”

“Will… will you come back? H-here, I mean,” he stuttered.

Thorin did not look at him. A long moment of silence passed – Bilbo’s eyes seeking Thorin’s, Thorin looking anywhere else. “I… don’t know.”

It hurt. “Thorin…” Bilbo swallowed his pain. It was selfish of his, to be in pain. Not when Thorin… not when Thorin’s eyes reflected the anguish of a boy, spurred by his father. The childlike shock was not something he was unfamiliar with. “Thorin, whatever you need, whenever… my door is always open to you. Always.”

Thorin closed his eyes. His hands were fists, trembling.

Bilbo wished he knew what to say. He wished he were sober. He wished he knew how to calm Thorin down. “I’ll… I’ll be going, now. Thanks – Thank you. For the… ride. Ride home,” He slurred. Bilbo swallowed the bile in his throat and tried again. “I want you – want you to know, you are perfect just the way you are, Thorin.”

His voice was helpless, weak and trembling and helpless.

Thorin blinked, almost unwillingly, and Bilbo stumbled out of the car, just as blind.

His door never seemed so welcoming before.

He did not look back, even when the screeching of tires ran over his shaking heart.

* * *

 

Bilbo woke up, groaning, to find himself shivering in his sofa, next to a dying fire.

Still wearing the bloody costume.

Everything hurt, especially his head. It felt as if someone was knocking on his skull.

Bilbo forced himself up, whimpering and grousing and muttering, and shrugged out of his costume. Well, tried. It was hard to undo all those ties and buttons with frozen fingers. His head was still pounding. Bilbo rose, crouching and shivering, to search for his robe and a blanket. After managing to drape both across his back, he stumbled next to the fireplace and doggedly dragged a log – ah, the poor carpet – and threw it in. Damn, his head…

Bilbo fell next to the fire and watched as the flames did their best to take over the new piece of wood. Tongues of fire blinked gleefully, celebrating any dent and failure in the log’s worn bark. Bastards.

Now, he really should get some ice for his head, because this pounding is going to…

No, not pounding. Knocking. Someone was knocking on his door.

Bilbo’s heart jumped to take residence in his throat, before he remembered that thieves do not knock. At least not very often. It was midnight, but… still. Thieves do not knock.

Bilbo waddled closer to the door, fear setting every hair follicle he had on edge. “H-hello?” he asked the door. “W-who’s there?” He suddenly imagined armies of teenagers, or worse, Lobelia – “I’m not at home!” he declared.

“…bo?”

Bilbo dropped the blanket. That – that sounded like - that –

His fingers fumbled with the key, fighting the ice-cold metal, then, finally, managed to unlocked the door.

Thorin stood on the other side, shivering in his coat. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again –

Bilbo took his hand. Eyes searching, seeking, promising soothing softness to the guarded blue, and led Thorin inside. He locked the door behind him, then, wordlessly, took his hand again.

“Bilbo,” Thorin whispered, but the rest of what he wanted to say died on his lips.

Bilbo still held Thorin’s hand. His fingers trembled in Bilbo’s palm. He tiptoed, cupping Thorin’s cheek. “It’s cold, Thorin. And late. Come to bed, yes?”

“Bilbo, I – “ Thorin lips clamped abruptly. His face crumbled in Bilbo’s hands. He was shaking. “Bilbo, I am so sorry – “

“Shh…” Bilbo’s fingers caressed Thorin’s cheekbone; his jaw; his hair. “Come to bed, Thorin. Let’s get you warm. And me, I’m – I’m freezing. Don’t worry about anything. Not tonight, all right?” He pulled Thorin down, hugged him, fingers soothing in his hair. “Not tonight.”

Thorin almost collapsed on top of him. Bilbo soothed the violent tremors that tore through Thorin’s hard form. Every muscle clenching, tearing and breaking under the strain. “Come, Thorin. I’m here. I’m here with you.”

And Thorin came. He followed him up the stairs, body still shaking, and waited as Bilbo lit the fireplace and then led him to bed. Bilbo undressed him slowly, took off his coat and his boots and his socks, undid the buttons of his shirt and the zipper of his pants. Thorin did not even seem to notice.

Bilbo took off his own robe and pushed away the blankets as he climbed onto the bed. He guided Thorin to lay his head on his chest as he covered both of them in his thick duvet. He hummed soothing melodies while his fingers stroked Thorin’s hair and drew patterns on his back.

Thorin still shivered. His hold of Bilbo was almost painful, but Bilbo did not say a word of protest. His breath was labored, accompanied by hissed growls and dampness Bilbo did not question.

“I’m here, Thorin, I’m here. I’m always here for you,” he whispered, kissing Thorin’s forehead. “It’s okay. You are safe. You are perfect, Thorin, you are perfect.”

A muffled whimper was the only response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again - this is highly important to me to emphasize - this fic is not anti-Semitic. At all. I am Jewish myself, and I saw the Jewish community displaying a lot of love and support toward the LGBTQ community. Sadly, I also saw homophobic trends, especially in the orthodox communities. Thrain isn't homophobic because he is Jewish, he is a Jewish rabbi who happens to be homophobic.
> 
> And to all the members of the LGBTQ community, this is the message I really want you all to get from this fic - you are perfect. Just the way you are.


	9. Chapter 9

It took him a few moments to realize:

A, he was awake. B, he was cold. C, the faint blue light coming from the window didn’t specify the time but indicated it was an ungodly hour. D, he was making a list, which had to be a new low, right?

His hand shifted, searching for bygone warmth, when his mind, finally, reached the only conclusion that mattered.

Thorin.

Bilbo yawned, opened his eyes, stared blankly at the ceiling, then rose from his bed. He donned his robe and waddled downstairs, trying not to run into any walls in the process. Granted, there was a good chance Thorin had already left, but perhaps it was early enough…

“…thought I’d find you here….”

Muffled voices from the kitchen.

“I Didn’t. This place is damn confusing. Spent the whole night searching, or what was left of it after you left.”

A soft chuckle. Or maybe a coughed yawn? Bilbo wasn’t sure. He also didn’t hear the mumbled reply, so he kept sneaking, heart hammering and oh God please make one of the speakers Thorin. Please?

His telephone was in the kitchen. Damn it.

“Found your car, you bastard. And acorn’s.”

Oh thank the heavens, that was Dwalin. Bilbo stopped tiptoeing and walked to the kitchen. It was his kitchen, after all. He had the right to walk there. Probably.

Dwalin carried on, or perhaps Thorin’s response was too quiet for him to catch? “He’s sitting, you know.”

Bilbo mustered the courage necessary to join the conversation. Since, well, the other option would be eavesdropping, and that was plain rude. “Who’s sitting?”

Dwalin and Thorin turned to face him. Thorin managed to grimace a sober smile in his direction, Dwalin – a grim nod. Dwalin leaned against the sink, Thorin against the counter, both in uniform and grim expressions to match. Bilbo moved to stand next to Thorin, close but not too close, and sent a concerned look to both men that was left unanswered. He wanted to erase all residue of misery from Thorin’s hunched, burdened shoulders, but the ice lining his stomach told him that this wasn’t the time for intimacy.

Dwalin looked as massive as ever, even in – or especially – in uniform. Bilbo almost wished he would leave so that he could give Thorin a proper good morning kiss. Thorin, on the other hand, just looked tired. No. Exhausted. His face became a labyrinth of worry lines and sharp edges, tight muscles and aching red eyes. He parted his lips, swallowed with difficulty, and remained silent.

Dwalin nodded at Bilbo. “Morning. Sorry I barged in. Been looking for this fella here.”

Bilbo snuck his hand and gave Thorin a reassuring squeeze.

Thorin’s returning squeeze was crushing. He then withdrew his hand and curled it into a fist.

Bilbo’s answering smile was forced. “No harm done. Can I get you anything to drink? Eat? Maybe a cup of coffee and some eggs and bacon before you… leave?”

Dwalin’s eyes sharpened, then rolled in their sockets when Bilbo flinched. “Coffee would be great, aye. And breakfast, I suppose. Something fast. No bacon, though.”

Thorin may have grumbled something.

Bilbo looked around, yet could not decode the stares the men used instead of verbal communication. He shuffled his feet, feeling incredibly out of place. “All… all right. Eggs and sausage, then? I got a kidney pie – “

“You’re making the coffee with milk, right? No meat,” Dwalin ordered.

Thorin sighed audibly this time. “Bilbo, don’t worry about it. We don’t need anything. I think we need to go, so – “

“No, no, no, not a problem at all!” Bilbo hurried to the refrigerator and took out four eggs and lit the gas burner and filled a kettle with water. If cooking breakfast would mean he could have Thorin for just a little longer…

He turned around, but the men were busy glaring – Dwalin at Thorin, Thorin at his shoes.

“He knows you’re here?” Dwalin muttered.

Thorin scoffed. “Unlikely. He wouldn’t bother.”

Dwalin growled something that sounded like a begrudged agreement. “Dis panicked. Dori came rushing to tell her that Thrain bought Yahrzeit candles….” Dwalin didn’t finish the sentence.

Thorin raked a hand through his hair, sliding closer and closer to the floor.

Bilbo had never fried eggs so quickly in his life before. He had to know what on earth was going on. He kept shooting quick, anxious glances at the pair, but the two seemed to have forgotten about him.

Dwalin opened the cookie jar and munched on a cookie with unnecessary strength. “You shouldn’t have left like that. It took Balin forever to calm her. Gloin had to come and pick up the boys to stay at his place. And I had to go looking for you.”

Thorin’s knuckles burned white. “Well, forgive me for not thinking this through. It’s one thing to… I almost walked into my own Shiva, goddammit.” He rubbed his face, as if to clean them from emotions and yesterday’s memories. “I heard the Hesped, coming from Father’s house, and I thought… I thought it was him. I thought it was him. That he, that somehow….”

Bilbo finished the coffee and the eggs and cutting the bread and melting the cheese. He couldn’t move. Thorin’s pain engraved each word into his stomach and burned through his chest.

“I thought I killed him, understand? Just like – “ He looked away, tried to swallow and failed. “But it was me. It was me.”

Dwalin growled, “Don’t tell me you still believe that horseshit. Frerin -” He ate another cookie, crushing it with his teeth, and did not complete that sentence, either.

Thorin sank a bit lower. “You don’t know.”

“Thorin – “

“You. Don’t. Know!”

In the silence that reigned, it was impossible to ignore the sound of Bilbo vigorously scrubbing his skillet.

Thorin closed his eyes on leaned on the counter; his chest heaved, but it sounded like he was barely breathing.

Dwalin closed the cookie jar. He placed both mugs in Bilbo’s hands, then carried the two plates in one of his and stirred Bilbo away from the kitchen with more force than necessary.

Away from Thorin.

“Well – wait – will you – hey – “

“Leave him be, lad. He needs a moment.”

Bilbo discovered that protesting without spilling the mugs’ contents was difficult. “Yes, but – “

Dwalin just directed him away and farther away and too far away until he spotted a table. He placed the plates down and grabbed Bilbo’s shoulders, peering into his eyes. “Listen, _acorn_. I know you care for Thorin, but lad just discovered his dad declared him dead. Sitting Shiva, understand? That means dead. Let him deal with this.”

Bilbo tried – in vain – to free himself from Dwalin’s iron grip. “Yes, all right. I understand. I mean, this hasn’t happened to me, personally, but I don’t think Thorin should be alone right now, so – “

Dwalin scoffed. “What do you know, eh? About Thorin – or about us? You have been dating Thorin for… how long? Three months? And you don’t even know we don’t eat pork? Or that Judaism doesn’t mix meat and milk? Hell, man, you know what I call declarations without proof?” he growled, “Bullshit!”

The word stood between them as if hammered to its spot.

Bilbo gasped, but no words sprung to fill the void. He stopped resisting. His eyes shifted to focus on his bare, frozen toes. “I just want to help him.”

Dwalin deflated – his shoulders slumped, his eyes faded, and his hands, which clasped Bilbo’s shoulders with enough strength to bruise, fell to rest at his sides. “I know you’ve been doing a lot for him, and I – we all appreciate that, that you’re making him happy, but you… if you aren’t gonna try for him, don’t… don’t lead him on.”

And Bilbo wanted to say something, to protest to explain, to –

But Thorin marched from the kitchen, army boots and all, and Dwalin quickly left Bilbo so he could wolf down the breakfast with inhuman speed, and Bilbo… he had no idea what to do. What to say.

Thorin stopped in front of him, probably as uncertain, though Bilbo wasn’t’ sure; he didn’t look up.

Instead, he looped his finger with Thorin’s, watching as each of their fingers stumbled, drunk and lonely, until it finally met its partner. Until Bilbo and Thorin managed to hold each other’s hand.

“I have to go soon,” he whispered.

Bilbo shuddered when he Thorin’s warm breath caressed his forehead. He must have been standing really close, bowing his head… or maybe it was just too difficult for him to hold it up any longer.

“I know. Come back here. I’ll… I’ll give you a key.”

“Bilbo….”

“You don’t have to. But you also don’t have to… don’t have to go where you are unwelcome.” He found the courage to look up, stubborn valor born of sheer determination, and the vulnerable, wounded blue that met his gaze was wrong, wrong on the man’s harsh, sharp features.

Bilbo tiptoed and kissed his lips, seared his conviction into Thorin’s lips and melt the hesitation from the clenched jaw. His hand held Thorin’s, really held it, while his other hand rested on Thorin’s chest, as if seeking to calm the rapidly beating heart underneath. Thorin’s hand regained its strength and held his while his fingers stumbled and drowned in Bilbo’s curls, then traced paths on his cheek.

Dwalin coughed.

Bilbo’s cheeks burned as he detached himself from Thorin. “Finish your breakfast, and I’ll give you a slice of cake, hmm?” he mumbled against his lips.

“Hey!” Dwalin protested.

Bilbo, somehow, found the strength to look away from Thorin and scowl at Dwalin. “You had two cookies, if I’m not mistaken.” _And you had the audacity to cough._

“Four,” Thorin corrected, then sat on the chair opposite Dwalin and ate his breakfast, though with less appetite than Dwalin.

The latter kicked him. “Traitor,” he hissed.

Bilbo rolled his eyes when Thorin returned the kick. “An extra slice, then,” he conceded and left in search of his spare key. Let the men bicker. It was better than watching Thorin crumble, seeing the strong structure of muscle and bone collapse like a tree after the fire. He could not – no – _refused_ to let him break.

So when he returned, key in hand as well as three slices of rich chocolate cake, to find the two soldiers wash the dishes with military efficiency, he could not help but chuckle at the ridiculous sight. And then Dwalin, grumbling, muttered goodbye and left for the car and Thorin closed the distance, offering an ‘almost-a-smile’ and a shy kiss…

Bilbo’s heart fluttered to the rhythm of Thorin’s lips, caressing his. Gentle and frightened, yet full of longing. Bilbo wanted to collect him in his arms and shut the world away. Instead, he gave him the key and held his hand for just a few more seconds, oh so precious. “Come back to me, yes? Don’t do anything dangerous.”

Thorin’s smile widened, just a little bit. “It’s mostly office work, just in the field.”

Bilbo smiled back, relief pooling in his stomach. “Don’t let the staplers bite.”

Thorin laughed – the sound was low and warm and Bilbo could have sworn it made him float – when an impatient car horn reminded both that the world kept a tighter schedule.

Thorin kissed his forehead, making him feel light and dizzy all over again, and left for the car.

Bilbo watched them drive away, uncertain what to make of it. Of them. Him and Thorin, Thorin and him.

He needed more time with Thorin so he could to help him, support him, learn about him. Dwalin’s words, he had to admit, bit deeply. Just hours upon hours locked in the bedroom or cuddled next to a fire or baking brownies… Normal stuff.

Though, he thought as he entered his house and locked the door, there had to be some perks to being a bookshop owner, right? He didn’t need Dwalin as a tutor.

But before that, breakfast.

 

Bilbo closed the book, counted to ten, and opened it again.

Judaism was not a religion. Nope. It was a set of laws, some of which made zero sense to him. For one thing, what did the poor pig ever do to earn such a terrible reputation? Tasted so good, too, so the animal couldn’t have been this bad, right?

Bilbo leaned back, staring at the ceiling of his bookshop and doing his best to ignore the merry shouts of the children within. Granted, dyeing Easter eggs was his favorite holiday activity, but trying to balance that with getting a law degree in Judaism was too bloody difficult.

So apparently, he should own two sets of dishes, one for food containing milk and the other for meat. Well, at least that would give him an excuse to buy that beautiful china he saw just three days ago…

“Uncle!”

Bilbo looked up, smiling at the sight of his excited, paint-covered nephew.

Frodo balanced three eggs in his hand, each decorated with delicate spring flowers. “There’s an old man searching for you!” the boy declared. Then he hid the eggs behind his back. “You can’t look yet, they aren’t finished!”

“Right.” Bilbo smiled affectionately, then noticed fluffy white beard grazing the edge of his peripheral vision. “Oh, Balin.” He offered a hesitant smile.

Frodo eyed them both curiously, then ran back to join the cluster of children sitting on the paper covered floor in the middle of the shop.

The old man smiled back, eyes warm, and sat with a small groan in the chair in front of Bilbo’s desk.

Where Thorin sat, eyes so very blue, and smiled –

“Been busy, I see,” Balin offered.

“Ah. Yes. Easter, you know,” Bilbo managed, then offered half a smile to hid the wary edge. Balin looked like a religious man, and Bilbo did not want to him to think he was corrupting Thorin… in more than one way. He cringed.

Balin’s expression softened. “I meant the book. You are learning how to be a Jew?”

Bilbo hushed him, then glanced around superstitiously. To Balin’s frown, he answered, “No… not, not really? I want to learn more… for Thorin, for… to make him feel more, more at home. I suppose.” _Now that he can’t go home,_ he thought but did not say _._ He tapped the book’s cover. “Kashr- Kashrut? That’s, ehhh. Hmm. Complicated.”

Balin nodded. “No one ever said it was easy. Are you embarrassed about it?”

Bilbo waved his hand, trying to encompass the entire Shire in his gesture. “Just not fond of gossip. It’s not… nice, usually.”

“Lashon Hara.” Balin nodded sagely.

Bilbo frowned. Looked around. Wondered if he missed something. Wondered if it would be rude to ask. Twitched his nose. “Excuse me?”

The old man chuckled. “You’ll get there, I suppose.” He opened his hands, then tapped the table. “I came to tell you I was leaving.”

Bilbo blinked. “Leaving? What, the… the army?”

“Hmm, yes. That too.” The warm brown darkened. “Thrain cast Thorin out, which was not something I could stomach.” He sighed, the muffled exhale only a whisper of untold burdens. “Thrain is not a bad man, Bilbo. He is not. The Holocaust changed him. Changed all of us. We were a prominent family once, traded in gold and gems.”

Balin paused or perhaps waited. Bilbo wasn’t sure what for.

“Thorin was a newborn.” A shadow of a smile ghosted his features. “We almost lost everything. Everyone. Lost my parents, my younger brothers, Thorin’s grandfather… but it could have been so much worse. Thrain fought for us tooth and nail. When Thorin’s mother became pregnant, we thought that this is going to be the end of both her and the child. We were already starving, Bilbo, how were we supposed to feed a baby?”

Bilbo tried to follow. He remembered learning something about the Holocaust in college, but he wasn’t emotionally ready to – to actually hear about it. He clutched his hands, uncertain what to do, how to react, how to contain it. Too much sadness, his heart protested, too much pain for one family.

“But he survived, God bless the lad, he fought back then, and he is still fighting now. The Nazis took everything from us, Bilbo, our very humanity. We became… nothing, except for large noses, tangled beards, and greedy hearts.”

Balin touched his rather large nose and winked. Bilbo grimaced in response.

The old man cocked his eyebrows and then waved his hand in front of his face, chasing away memories the way one would a pesky fly. “A cousin of ours joined a partisan group and smuggled us out.” His chuckle was dry. “Our troubles didn’t end then, of course. And Thrain, once and again, pulled us through. Belief in God helped him endure… endure the past, every loss – and he had suffered many. Every loss made him harder. Less forgiving. Less accepting. He believes those were all his fault, understand? His parents’ death, his wife’s suicide, then Frerin… and Thorin too, in a way. That maybe if he fed him better, escaped earlier – “

“Being gay is not a biological fuck-up, Balin,” Bilbo hissed.

The old man nodded. “Nor am I saying it is. I thought you deserved an explanation for the… the reason for Thrain’s behavior. I am not justifying, just explaining, Bilbo. Someone should, since the Durins aren’t very good at expressing themselves,” he said, voice weathered and veined. “And, as I said, I am leaving.” He managed a smile, still as warm as before.

Bilbo frowned at the man, who came all this way to tell another man’s story and yet still managed to smile, as if that story weren’t horrible; as if he had no share in the horrors of the past. He shook his head and tried to focus on the conversation. “Oh. On… on vacation?”

Balin’s smile widened. “Not quite. I am a Rabbi myself. Reform Judaism, which… well, slightly different. I am leaving to join a new community in Moria.”

“Moria?” Bilbo tried to place it on a map.

“It’s a four-hour drive from here,” Balin supplied. “Used to be a flourishing Jewish community, back in the day. Come and visit anytime.” He offered his hand for a shake and did not seem to mind the amount of time it took Bilbo to understand he was, in fact, leaving. “By the way, Thorin’s favorite holiday is Passover, so why not start from there? Easier, I wager.”

“Pass-over, right.” Bilbo frowned, then smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great!” Balin’s eyes twinkled. “I shall inform the others. Who knows, I might even come myself. Good day, Bilbo!”

“Goo-good day!” Bilbo called, baffled.

Others.

Inform the others.

“W-wait, Balin – “

But the old man already closed the door behind him. He was gone.

Bilbo stumbled on an egg, then surrendered to the will of gravity and sank to the paper covered floor.

Others? What – who – when – oh dear God what on earth had he agreed to?

“Uncle?” A small hand pulled on his sleeve. “You are sitting in a puddle of paint.”

“Huh.” That would do well to explain the wetness biting his butt.

“Uncle?”

“Yes, Frodo?”

“Who was that?”

“A… a friend.”

“He said weird things,” the boy whispered conspiringly.

“Frodo, what did I tell you about eavesdropping?”

“That it is considered rude?”

“Right.” Bilbo nodded, then frowned. He was supposed to reprimand him, right? Did that count?

“Uncle?”

“Yes?”

“Are you throwing a party?”

Bilbo sighed. “So it would appear.”

Frodo looked up, eyes mischievously bright. “I wanna help! I won’t tell Mom!”

Bilbo scoffed, then crunched his nose in silent agreement. Prim may be on a cruise, but she’d still be displeased to find he threw a party without her.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Shiva – A Jewish tradition where you sit for seven days and mourn while other people come to comfort and support the mourners. It has a lot of other traditions included, but that’s it, in a nutshell.
> 
> Yahrzeit candles – memorial candles
> 
> Hesped – a eulogy.
> 
> Lashon Hara - derogatory speech about another person, usually gossip.
> 
>  
> 
> Err. Backstory. More Bagginshield next chapter, I promise! Also, digestion jokes. All of you who had the misfortune to eat too many matzot know what I mean 

**Author's Note:**

> A dabble in Bagginshield. If you like it, do tell!


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